


My Soul and Yours

by nerdypipsqueak



Series: My Soul and Yours [1]
Category: A Dangerous Man: Lawrence After Arabia (1990), Lawrence of Arabia (1962), Seven Pillars of Wisdom - T. E. Lawrence
Genre: AU, Anal Sex, Angst, Committed Relationship, Historical Inaccuracy, Hurt/Comfort, Love Confessions, M/M, Rape Recovery, Second Chances, Sex, Some Fluff, a bit of a crossover between Seven Pillars of Wisdom and the movies, wwi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-31
Updated: 2020-03-25
Packaged: 2020-04-05 17:40:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 18
Words: 26,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19045225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nerdypipsqueak/pseuds/nerdypipsqueak
Summary: Lawrence and Feisal and an attraction that will change the world.I suck at summaries, I'm sorry.





	1. Chapter 1

Akaba, 1917  
"Where can I find Major Lawrence?" The American journalist is extremely annoying. He's not interested in the Cause, the Revolt. He's interested in money, in finding a story that will earn him money. And he's interested in Lawrence, too much so for Feisal's liking.  
Major Lah-rence. That's what the name sounds like in that loud, harsh American accent. Like he can't pronounce it properly.  
"I don't know." Feisal says. The American looks perplexed, staring blankly at him.  
Feisal hates not knowing. He has a rough idea of where the army is, one can't be a leader and not have such knowledge. But he doesn't know exactly where Lawrence is. With whom. In what shape. They move too fast to be able to report every single relocation. Not to mention that sending a messenger is simply too risky. Making detours in search of a telegraph would not only be risky, it would be foolish. Lawrence is not a foolish man and neither is Feisal.  
He promises the American a camel and a guide, neglects to tell him there already is one American journalist out there with Lawrence and his men, then leaves. His heart aches. This must be how Mother felt every time Father went to war, he realises.  
That night Feisal lies in bed (an actual bed, headboard, mattress, pillows, the lot) and stares at the ceiling. There is never time for ceiling-gazing when Lawrence is around. The ceiling can't compete with blue eyes and golden-blonde hair. Feisal sighs deeply and sits up, too worried to sleep. He gets up, heads to the window and lights a cigarette. It's a clear night, Lawrence is probably star-gazing instead of resting. He has so much energy, wants to do so many things at once that he often pushes himself beyond exhaustion, to the point of fainting. They are quite alike, the English officer and the Arab prince.  
Feisal finishes his cigarette and heads back to bed. He must at least try to get some rest. Tomorrow is bound to be another long day.

Wadi Safra, 1916

The English are sending another officer. Feisal doesn't know the man, the name Lawrence means nothing to him. All he knows is that the officer has already visited his brothers and is now heading to Wadi Safra.  
Feisal casts a glance to where the English are camping. They've got a gramophone, obviously a necessity in the middle of the desert, and are playing Mozart. They also have European furniture and food. They wear uniforms and keep to themselves, avoiding the Arabs as much as possible. Not all Englishmen are like that, there is Mr Garland who speaks good Arabic and treats everyone like they're his equals but one exception isn't enough. Cooperation is very difficult.  
Captain Lawrence arrives that evening. He is nothing like the English officers already present in Wadi Safra. He is small, about the same height as Feisal's brother Abdullah but not fat like Abdullah, quite the opposite actually. He looks very young and Feisal is surprised to learn that this kid, tired but smiling, is only 5 years younger than him. His eyes are strikingly blue, like the tiles in the Sultan Ahmed Mosque in Constantinople. His skin is smooth and pale, his lips... Oh God, his lips are perfectly sculpted, an embodiment of temptation.  
Then Captain Lawrence speaks. His voice is pleasantly low, Feisal can almost feel it resonating within him, captivating, enchanting. Lawrence chooses his words carefully. His Arabic is... interesting. He has a reasonably good vocabulary but his syntax is bizarre and he appears to be making up grammar rules as he goes. It's oddly endearing. Feisal invites the captain to join him and his men for a meal, half-expecting a refusal, some sort of excuse. But Lawrence smiles once again and says yes.  
Later that evening they talk and Feisal asks him how he likes Wadi Safra. "It's pleasant but rather far from Damascus" Lawrence says and the world comes to a halt. It seems that everyone's holding their breath, even the hills outside appear to be watching intently. Feisal looks at Lawrence, into his brilliantly blue eyes, sees nothing but absolute conviction and sincerity. This man, he thinks, has faith and ability, he is capable of conquering Damascus.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lawrence is unwell and Feisal is protective.  
> Also, hints are made and erotic dreams are dreamt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For sevenpillarsof_leviathan who left such a nice comment on chapter one.

Captain Lawrence is a force of nature. He seems to be constantly on the move, travelling on foot or on camelback between Wadi Safra, Cairo, Yenbo, Arab camps, English troops, French troops. He is very outspoken, his opinions are bold and often anger his superiors. He also loathes stupidity and waste in all their forms.  
Sometimes, when everthing has been attended to, they talk. Feisal asks Lawrence about Oxford, about his time in Carchemish. Lawrence asks about Constantinople. One day they start talking about politics but end up talking about family. Feisal explains the particularities of the Sherifian court. He talks about his brothers and his stepbrother, about all his father's wives. Lawrence listens intently but says very little, just mentions that he too has brothers.  
"Are you married?" Feisal asks.  
"Me? No. No." Lawrence looks into the distance "There was a girl, we used to be close friends. Janet's her name. My mother liked her... Despite their differences. I think she expected me to propose to Janet at some point."  
"Did you?"  
"Yes, I did. She refused, thank God. I adore her, she's delightful company but..." The Englishman's voice trails away into silence.  
"But you couldn't see her as your wife?" Feisal prompts him.  
"I can't see myself married. I can't see myself with... with a woman."  
Feisal is so surprised he almost drops his cigarette. Europeans don't admit this openly to such proclivities.  
"I mean... women are splendid company, at least most are" Lawrence babbles nervously. "It's just... women do not appeal to me physically."  
"Boys then." Feisal says in what he hopes is a neutral tone.  
"Men." Lawrence corrects him. Then his eyes widen in horror. He leaves with a quick "forgive me, your highness" on his lips. Feisal lets him go, it is plain to see that the young man needs to be alone with his thoughts.  
Feisal's servant, Hejris moves from his spot at the entrance to the tent. "Permission to speak, my lord?"  
"Granted. You are not a slave, you keep forgetting that."  
Hejris sits down and puts his huge black hands together. "Are you going to pursue him?"  
"I don't know" Feisal says softly "He is... different. He needs gentleness and patience."  
"You lack neither."  
Feisal nods and offers his servant a cigarette. For a while they sit in silence, smoking and sipping coffee. Then Captain Lawrence returns, apologetic and blushing.  
"You look uncomfortable in that" Feisal gestures at the man's khaki uniform. "If I gave you a thawb, would you wear it?"  
The Englishman's face lights up, that sweet smile warmer than the sun. "Yes! Yes, absolutely, yes."  
"Very well. Hejris, find Captain Lawrence an outfit. You can use the one that just came from Mecca."  
Hejris smiles knowingly, teeth flashing, and delves into one of the many chests. Feisal lowers his gaze respectfully, focusing on a random letter, eyes scanning the text without actually reading. His insides are trembling with excitement, the awareness of all that pale skin baring itself mere inches away. The temptation to peek is overwhelming and he fights it with all his might. With somebody else he would already have given in but this Englishman isn't just anybody. He is not meant to be an object of one's lust, a catamite. He is meant to be loved, adored, lavished with attention, tenderness, kindness. He deserves to be happy. Feisal wants to make him happy. That want surprises him a little. It's been a very long time since he's felt anything like it.  
Hejris coughs and Feisal rises to his feet, turns around, doesn't even attempt to stifle his gasp of awe. Lawrence looks magnificent, dressed in that white, wide-sleeved thawb and gold-embroidered bisht that arrived from Mecca. He positively glows. The gold embroidery complements his hair. He smiles and stretches his arm towards Feisal in a playful gesture. The prince takes the proffered hand, squeezing it lightly between his own. "You will find these more comfortable than that uniform."  
"You are most generous, your highness" Lawrence bows his head "If you don't mind me asking, these are rather extravagant for war..."  
"They are a gift from my aunt in Mecca. They were intended to be my wedding robes but I have no need for them."  
Lawrence's eyes widen, for a second his smile drops. It returns almost immediately, a mischievous glint in those blue eyes. "A subtle hint?"  
"Like all her hints." Feisal laughs. "Deep down inside she means well, you know."  
"Will she not be upset that you gave her gift away so easily and to an infidel?"  
"She knows I have no desire to marry. And if I wish to give my clothes to an infidel? Well, that is my choice. Besides, they look good on you."  
"You flatter me" Lawrence drops his gaze shyly. He looks very fragile now. Feisal feels a strong desire to wrap the man in his arms, to protect him from the entire world, almost acts on it, stops himself just in time. Not now, too quick, too early.  
Then Garland calls out for Lawrence from somewhere outside the tent, startling them both. The captain murmures a thank you and leaves, his robes rustling softly about him. 

Wejh

Life in Wejh is good. Cooperation has vastly improved as has communication. Apart from a few incidents (such as one of the tribes rebelling against their chief) things are running smoothly. The Arabs along with the English have started demolishing the railway.  
So far Feisal has given Captain Lawrence about a third of his wardrobe, a dagger and a rifle, all of which the Englishman has accepted graciously. They spend a lot of time together, talking, planning, sometimes just sitting side by side in silence, sipping coffee and reading. Those are the really good days. On the bad days Lawrence disappears for hours at a time on the English ship moored in the harbour. He usually returns frustrated and upset. His anger is not explosive but it makes his whole being vibrate even when he sits still and quiet, gazing into the distance.  
Feisal expects this day to be one of those worse ones. Lawrence has been summoned to the ship again. But what worries Feisal more is that the young man has recently lost his appetite and is looking paler day by day. The anxiety is unbearable, it makes him itch. Uncomfortable in his spot on the carpet he rises to his feet and starts pacing.  
"Your highness" Lawrence stumbles into the tent. "I have news."  
"Good or bad?"  
"I'm not sure yet. The Nur El-Bahr is due to arrive in two days. She is bringing intelligence, of what nature I don't know."  
"We shall find out in two days then. Come now, sit with me." Feisal gestures towards a nearby stack of pillows and furs. Lawrence looks at him, through him with unfocused eyes, then his legs give in and he collapses.  
"Hejris!" Feisal cries out, alarmed. The servant is next to him in a flash, helping him arrange the limp body against the cushions. Lawrence, barely conscious, protests weakly, tries to sit up.  
"Don't, don't." Feisal grips him firmly by the shoulders. His skin is burning hot, even through all the layers of clothing he is wearing. "You're unwell, you need to rest."  
"I'll rest in my tent, your highness. I will only be a bother here."  
"No, don't be silly. You're not a bother. Never. Honestly, I'd rather you stay here where I can keep an eye on you and make sure you're not exerting yourself."  
"Your wish is my command" Lawrence sighs and sinks back onto the carpet. He tries to protest again when Hejris brings him a blanket and water but one reproachfully amused look from Feisal silences his objections. He even smiles back, weak but full of mirth as he settles against the pillows. He is asleep in minutes, curled on his side, peaceful.

Captain Lawrence spends the next two days in Feisal's tent. He sleeps a lot and eats very little. Then the Nur El-Bahr arrives and Lawrence is summoned to the harbour to meet her crew. Feisal waits impatiently and anxiously. Finally the Englishman returns, weak and slightly green on the face.  
"The Turks have been instructed to abandon Medina and march for Maan." He says.  
"And what do your superiors want to do?" Feisal asks.  
"They demand that we do our best to capture Medina or at least destroy the garrison on their way out."  
"What do you think we should do?"  
"We already have men on the railway. What we need now is for your brother, Abdullah, to step up. We need all the power we can possibly get."  
"Abdullah likes an easy life." Feisal sighs. "He's happy in Wadi Ais. It's far from the fighting."  
"I know, your highness. But he has to step up. We need him."  
"Send Mr Garland to talk to him. They seem to like each other."  
"Mr Garland's on the railway."  
"Colonel Newcombe then."  
"He's on the railway too and technically he's my superior. I can't just order him to go somewhere."  
"Who can we send then?"  
"I'll go." Lawrence says after a minute of pondering.  
"You're not well." Feisal objects.  
"Yes but nobody else can do it. The men I've got left, they don't know Abdullah, many of them don't even speak Arabic. I will go. I'll be fine."  
"I admire your dedication to our cause but you are not well and I don't want you overexerting yourself."  
"Your highness, I came here to exert myself. It's my job."  
"Yes. But not to die."  
For a minute they gaze at each other in silence. Lawrence smiles softly. "I will be careful."  
"I hope so." 

Lawrence is gone for weeks. For Feisal every day of his absence is a day filled with worry and dread. What if the Englishman's already poor condition worsens? What if someone attacks him? What if he dies? Feisal shudders at the very thought and tries to occupy himself with his work.  
Sleep provides little respite. Feisal usually doesn't remember his dreams but the ones he is having now are extremely vivid: horrific nightmares about a pale man stumbling towards him, blood pouring out of his mouth and eyes, then collapsing lifeless at his feet. There are other dreams too, equally vivid, about the same pale man, only in vastly different circumstances. Dreams about soft lips, smooth skin beneath his hands, pale thighs wrapping around his waist, leaving Feisal burning with want. The more he wants the more he worries. But this isn't just desire. This is different. He misses his conversations with Lawrence, those silent hours they've spent in each other's company, reading or simply gazing into the distance, watching camp life go past them. He misses the way time stops when his eyes meet Lawrence's.  
Yenbo has been evacuated. The English have provided aeroplanes, armoured cars, weapons and explosives. All this pleases Feisal greatly. If only he could share his joy with...  
"My lord, Captain Lawrence is back" Hejris enters the tent.  
Oh thank God!  
"Show him in" Feisal orders.  
Although he is visibly tired Lawrence looks a lot healthier. That radiant, breathtaking smile is back with full force. He talks animatedly about his trip to Wadi Ais and about his partially successful attempt to blow up a section of the railway. But Feisal is more interested in what he omits.  
"Were you careful?" He asks.  
"I beg your pardon?" Lawrence looks at him quizzically.  
"Before you left you were unwell but you insisted on going to Wadi Ais yourself. I wasn't happy about that, I was terribly concerned about you and your safety. Do you remember what you said? You told me you would be careful. And now I'm asking. Were you careful?"  
"I did my best, your highness."  
"A subtle way of saying you pushed yourself to your utmost limit, made yourself worse and had to take time to recuperate. Am I mistaken?"  
"No, my lord. It seems that I am an open book to you."  
"Oh no, you are not an easy man to read."  
"Yet when we speak it feels like we have known each other since the dawn of time."  
"Who knows? Maybe our souls truly have known each other since the beginning of time." Feisal muses. "Anyway, tell me how fares my brother. What is he up to?"  
"Well..." Lawrence pauses. He is evidently searching for something positive to say about Abdullah. And failing.  
"Please be honest with me. There is no need to hide anything. I know my brother."  
"Abdullah is very comfortable in Wadi Ais." Lawrence says finally. "He does not venture out on raids and will not do so out of his own volition. He spends his days with his friends and his jester, playing practical jokes, reciting poetry and reading. Occassionaly he will go riding but only for his own amusement."  
"I am not surprised at all" Feisal lights a cigarette. "And what of Medina?"  
"In my opinion we should leave Medina alone for now. With all the damage we have done to the railway so far the balance has shifted. The garrison in Medina is virtually powerless. I think we should make a move for Akaba."  
"That is very bold, even for you. Have you spoken to your superiors?"  
"I have." There is a hint of frustration in Lawrence's voice. "They have already made extensive preparations for the Medina plan and insist that we stick to that plan too. They did admit that my idea regarding Akaba is worthwhile but that is it. Just words. I have received no orders."  
"What will you do then?"  
"I will act without orders if I have to."  
"Captain Lawrence" Feisal takes the Englishman's hands in his own "Surely, if you act without orders you will be court-martialed. I do not want you to jeopardise your military career for my sake."  
"My lord" Lawrence looks up at him timidly "I would gladly jeopardise my career and my life for you."  
That is... unexpected. Not unwelcome, absolutely not, far from that. Just unexpected.  
"I think..." Feisal says softly "I think there is no need for titles between us. Not when we're alone."  
"Very well... Feisal" Lawrence smiles warmly.  
"What shall I call you? Thomas? Tom?"  
"Lawrence is fine."  
Lost for words, Feisal lifts one white hand to his lips and gently kisses it, eliciting a surprised gasp from the other man.  
"Please tell me if I've overstepped." He says, bracing himself for rejection, his heart pounding. But there is no rejection, just blue eyes full of mixed emotions - pleasure, astonishment, a shy happiness and he reaches out to stroke that pale cheek, fingertips caressing ever so lightly.  
"Feisal..." Lawrence whispers.  
"I was so terribly worried about you." Feisal whispers back "I thought about you every single day."  
He wants to tell Lawrence everything. All the changes, all the fear, the longing. He wants to tell him about the nightmares and the other dreams too. But a servant arrives, loudly announcing Auda Abu Tayi and Auda is a matter that requires immediate attention so Feisal reluctantly releases Lawrence's hands, carefully composes himself and nods to the servant to let the newcomer in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The robes Feisal gave Lawrence were a gift from his great-aunt and were meant to be a wedding outfit.  
> According to Seven Pillars of Wisdom Lawrence was ill when he went to Wadi Ais which prolonged his journey.  
> Lawrence did have a close childhood friend called Janet Laurie. He did propose to her but was rejected. He wasn't upset by the rejection which prompts me to believe that Lawrence proposed to Janet for the sake of appearances and/or pressure from his mother. But that is just my personal opinion.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> First kisses! Lawrence being inexperienced but adventurous, Feisal being gentle, Ali (not Ali ibn El Kharish) being the annoying sibling. Also, the Red Sea makes a guest appearance.

Lawrence and Auda get on well despite their differences. Feisal enjoys watching them at work, it's like watching not one but two forces of nature clashing, transforming each other and the world around them. He also enjoys the glances and smiles he exchanges with Lawrence and the stolen moments in his private tent when all they do is sit side by side and read, fingertips brushing on the carpetted floor. Sometimes, after sunset, they go for walks, just the two of them, around Wejh, talking about everything and nothing.  
This evening is particularly warm and they wander past the harbour where the British ship is moored and all the way to the beach. They stroll further, leaving Wejh and the war behind them. Lawrence's head is bare and the breeze is toying with his golden hair. Feisal wants to touch it but stills himself lest he frighten the other man. He focuses on the conversation, on that low voice, only just audible over the sound of the waves.   
"The sea is lovely tonight."  
"That it is." Feisal can't help but agree. "And calm too."  
"I think I'd like to disturb that calmness a little bit."  
"How so?"  
Lawrence smiles and slides off his bisht, another gift from Feisal, a luxurious scarlet thing from Mecca. He carefully folds it and places it on the sand, laying his dagger over it to make sure the breeze doesn't carry it away. Then he runs into the sea.  
"Lawrence!" Feisal calls after him.  
"The water feels wonderful!" Lawrence stops at ankle-depth. He stretches his hand out just like he had a few weeks ago in Feisal's tent and Feisal knows he is lost. He pulls off his own bisht and runs into the sea like he hasn't run since he was a boy. Lawrence laughs, uninhibited, unrestrained, free, starts walking backwards, further into the cool water. Feisal catches up with him, captures the waiting hand. They are in knee-deep now. Their eyes meet and time stops. The world dissolves around them, until all that is left is the feeling of fingers entwined together, warmth radiating between two bodies, blue eyes soft with affection. Feisal leans forward and kisses Lawrence's tempting lips, gently but briefly, a mere brush of flesh against flesh.  
"Please forgive me if I've overstepped." He withdraws, once again bracing himself for rejection but there is none. There is just Lawrence, blushing, smiling, the sweetest, most sincere smile in the whole world, wrapping his arm around Feisal's neck, rising on tiptoe and then their lips meet again. It is just as sweet as that smile. It is also timid, innocent, a little clumsy, the young man's lack of experience evident but so endearing.  
"You've never..." Feisal whispers, astonished, against those sensuous lips.  
"Not like this." Lawrence whispers back, swaying on the tips of his toes. He sinks back onto his heels and Feisal puts his arms around him, pulling him close, holding him to his chest, kissing the top of his head, like he has wanted to for weeks. The water flows around them, lapping at their legs, drenching their clothes.  
"Not with another man?"  
"Not with anybody."  
Feisal cups Lawrence's flushed face in his hands, stoops and brings their lips together a third time. This kiss is bolder, longer, slower than the previous ones. Tongues explore and caress tentatively, willing mouths claiming and being claimed. It's only the need to breathe that pushes them apart.  
"It feels much nicer than it looks." Lawrence says between gasps for air. "I've seen my brothers with girls before. I've seen them kiss. I always thought it messy, obscene, unclean even. But it feels a lot better than it looks."  
Feisal's heart swells with happiness. "I take it you enjoyed it then."  
"Yes! Yes, I did. It felt... I felt... free. True to myself. And true to you."  
"So did I."

They spend the night together. Nothing much happens, other than shy, experimental kissing, testing, learning what is nice and what is not-so-nice. It's an adventure, a sweet, slow adventure full of tenderness and, yes, love. Neither dares to say it out loud, not yet. For now that simple exchange about truth is enough for them.   
Feisal does not push, he lets Lawrence have the upper hand, lets him explore at his own pace, chastises himself for the way his heart sinks when the man withdraws.  
"This is definitely nicer than I expected" Lawrence lies back against the stack of pillows. "But also more intense than I thought it would be."  
"No matter what happens, no matter the outcome of this war, we have all the time in the world" Feisal stretches out next to him, taking his hand in his. "And if anything I say or do is too much for you just say a word."  
"Will you hold me?"   
"Of course. Always." Feisal's arms wrap themselves around the small, sinewy body, fingers tangling in soft golden hair. Lawrence's entire body relaxes, melting into the embrace. Soon his breathing slows down and evens. 

Feisal wakes to a warm weight on his body. There's been some shifting during the night and he has somehow ended up on his back, Lawrence lying over him, an arm flung across his chest, one leg insinuating itself between his own. Extremely gently, Feisal runs his finger along the bare skin of that possessive arm, from wrist to where the sleeve has rolled up, tracing intricate patterns over the pale flesh. Lawrence's hand twitches, then he rolls over onto his side so Feisal follows, wrapping an arm around him, showering his hair and cheek with kisses.  
"This is lovely..." Lawrence murmures drowsily. "Please don't stop."  
"Can I do some more then?"  
"Mmm" That sleepy purr could mean absolutely anything. Feisal decides to take his chance. He trails kisses from Lawrence's temple down his cheek, towards his ear. Tentatively he kisses the soft skin beneath the ear and then gently sucks on the lobe itself.  
"Feisal!" Lawrence gasps.   
"I'm sorry if I upset you..." Feisal starts but the Englishman rolls over and he's not upset, not at all, quite the contrary.  
"That felt good."  
"It did?" Relief washes through him and he can't help but smile at those sparkling blue eyes.  
"I liked it." Lawrence reaches up and trails his fingertips along Feisal's cheek, just above the line of his beard. Soon he gets bolder, stroking with his entire palm and it's lovely, it's innocent and sweet. And...  
"My lord, your brother, Sherif Ali, is here to see you." Hejris booms from the other side of the tent flap. Lawrence is on his feet in seconds, clothes straightened out, ready to leave.  
"Will I see you tonight?" Feisal asks, hoping that he doesn't sound anxious.  
"Yes, yes, of course." The Englishman smiles and slips out, past Hejris who is now busily tying the tent flap back, creating an entrance.   
Sherif Ali is waiting outside, surrounded by the latest litter of his pet saluki's puppies. Lawrence greets him, talks with him for a minute or so, then turns his attention to the puppies. Ali gives him a quick pat on the shoulder before entering the tent and sitting next to Feisal.  
"He just came out of your tent." Ali says accusingly.  
"Yes, I'm well aware of that. We were talking." Feisal tells him, the lie strangely easy, as he lights the first cigarette of the day.  
"You were talking. In a closed tent." Ali sounds doubtful. "And I was born yesterday."  
"We were talking." Feisal repeats the lie. His voice doesn't waver, it's a skill he's picked up in Constantinople. A few feet away Lawrence is sitting in the sand, swarmed by playful puppies, laughing.  
"You should make a move, otherwise someone will beat you to it." Ali reaches for a cigarette.  
"Excuse me?! What on earth are you talking about?"  
"About him. The Englishman."  
"Which one? We have ever so many nowadays."  
"Don't pretend you don't know. Captain Lawrence of course."  
"What about Captain Lawrence?"  
"I can see the way you look at him, I'm not blind, you know. But if you don't make a move someone else will. Me for example. Or that young Harith sherif..."  
"Ali!" Feisal slaps him across the shoulder, indignant.  
"What?! I'm just being honest. I can see that you like him and I've kept my distance but if you don't make your move I most definitely will make mine."  
"You will do no such thing, brother."  
"Oh really? What are you going to do about it? Unless..." Ali smiles gleefully. "You already have made your move."  
"A gentleman does not kiss and tell, dear brother. It's an English saying, I believe."  
"Oh! Oh my! You kissed him, didn't you?"  
"Subtlety has never been your forte." Feisal rolls his eyes, now slightly less annoyed and even a little amused.  
"Very well. I will keep my distance then." Ali puffs out a cloud of smoke. "What's he like?"  
"What do you mean what's he like?!"  
"You know exactly what I mean."  
Feisal hesitates. He doesn't want to share any details about the events of last night with Ali. That is to stay between him and Lawrence. On the other hand he knows his brother will not let the issue go until his curiosity is at least mitigated.   
"He's pure" Feisal says finally.  
"He's never...?" Ali's eyebrows shoot up, astonished.  
"Never."  
"I am so envious right now." Ali lies back on the pillows, right on the spot Lawrence had so recently occupied, littering ash around him. "Think about it. Nobody's been there before you..."  
Feisal stops paying attention to the filth spilling from Ali's mouth, enchanted by what he sees before him. Lawrence is flat on his back now, laughing, arms full of puppies, just as free and unrestrained as he had been on the beach. All of a sudden he arches his back so that he is looking into the tent and winks at Feisal, rendering him speechless, silencing the rest of the world as well.  
A sudden cry of "Captain Lawrence" spoils the moment. The man in question pulls himself to his feet, Ali's dogs scattering around him, and heads off following the call.  
"Are you even listening to me?!" Ali nudges Feisal.  
"No." He says honestly. "I don't care for your filth."  
"It's like that, isn't it? Please be careful. I would hate to see my favourite brother hurt."  
Feisal just laughs. "I presume you came here for a reason."  
"Yes." Ali finally pulls his mind out of the gutter. "Akaba."  
That's something Feisal can talk about. 

Lawrence returns in the evening, wet-haired, smelling of seawater. He greets Feisal formally but his eyes are soft with affection. They plan and exchange ideas over rice, meat and tea. Then Feisal dismisses his men, Hejris moves to his post just outside the tent, making sure to lower the flap and at last they are alone. Two pairs of lips seek each other out, hands tangle in hair, all heat and speed and longing.   
"I can't stop thinking about you." Feisal murmurs between kisses.  
"Neither can I." Lawrence is in his arms now, in his lap, so close. The only thing separating them is the fabric of their robes. Two layers of sirwal, two layers of thawb. Beyond that the vast expanse of warm skin. Feisal silently begs his own body not to betray him right now. It doesn't but still Lawrence retreats. "I apologize. That may have been a bit too fast for me."  
"It's alright." Feisal strokes his smooth cheek soothingly "I understand."  
"You do?"  
"Yes. I was very much like you when I was younger. I understand."  
"Thank you." Lawrence reaches out to touch Feisal's cheek, his hand taking the same course it had followed earlier that morning. He captures that hand in his own and kisses it.  
"You are the loveliest man I've ever met."  
"Surely you have met better-looking men than me." Lawrence blushes.  
Where is your self-esteem, Feisal wants to say. Instead he kisses Lawrence again, gently and chastely. "It's not just about your looks. It's your heart, your spirit, that fantastic mind of yours."  
"You flatter me."  
"Oh no, I'm just being honest. Come now, let me hold you."  
Lawrence melts into Feisal's arms and the prince can't help but smile. Carefully he lays them down and begins stroking the Englishman's back. The possessive arm curls itself around his waist and he relaxes into the embrace, suddenly drowsy. He is asleep within seconds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this happens a few weeks after the events of chapter 2.   
> Chapter 4 is not finished yet so please be patient! I do have another story (a Lawrence/Ali story) I can start uploading while you wait for chapter 4. Please let me know in the comments if you would like me to start uploading the other story!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pleasure is shared, confessions are made. Lawrence sets off to conquer Akaba.

It is time. Money, weapons and supplies have been finally gathered, plans made, agreements reached. The men will leave for Akaba in the morning. Lawrence is going with them since it is his idea, his device and therefore command should also be his. He is not happy about that and Feisal can see it. He can feel it as well, the tension in Lawrence's back and shoulders, a tension he's been working hard to relieve with warm hands and firm pressure, not always successfully.  
Now he is waiting anxiously for Lawrence to return from Auda's tent. It is getting late and if he doesn't show up soon there will be no time for anything other than sleep, Feisal thinks as he smokes. He needs to occupy himself so he checks the sacks of money, making sure they are secure. It's all he can afford, hopefully it will get Lawrence, Auda and their men to Akaba. Feisal opens one of his own chests, the one where he keeps all his valuables, looks through the contents. Some of these have been in his family for generations, Father would never forgive him if he were to sell them or trade them for arms and camels, neither would his brothers.  
Something inside the chest captures Feisal's attention, he reaches for it. It's a ring, a gold ring, its band covered in finely carved vines, the stone an oval sapphire. It's not one of those deep blue sapphires, this one is so pale it's almost white. It reminds him of...  
"That man is insufferable!" Lawrence enters the tent and unceremoniously throws himself onto the pillows. He runs his hands down his face as if wiping water off it. Then a single hand slides down his neck and comes to rest on his chest. Feisal follows the motion, his throat suddenly dry.  
"Who? Auda?" He asks finally.  
"Yes, Auda." Lawrence heaves a sigh. "He talks, you know. He talks. And talks. And talks. I now know things about him I would rather not know. I know... things about his wives and I've never even seen his wives."  
"Auda likes the sound of his own voice." Feisal sits beside Lawrence. "But I'm sure you will survive. Anyway, Ali is going with you, isn't he?"  
"Yes, he is."  
"Perfect. He'll make sure that Howeitat madman does not bother you too much."  
Lawrence laughs at that remark and Feisal drinks in the sound, a sudden fear coursing through his veins, turning his blood to ice.   
"What's that?" Lawrence gestures towards the ring still in Feisal's hand.  
"I... I'd like you to have this." He hadn't planned this but it just feels right. Like it's meant to be.  
"It's lovely... I... I don't know what to say... I can't accept..." Lawrence stutters. "I'm not worthy of such a gift."  
"Oh yes you are." Feisal takes his hand firmly. "Treat it as a token of my... affection. My loyalty. A promise."  
"Oh. Oh my." Lawrence's eyes widen impossibly. "A promise?"  
"Yes. A promise that you will come back to me. That when Akaba is conquered I will see you well and unharmed. That I will hold you and we will have all the time in the world no matter where this war takes us." Carefully, Feisal begins to slide the ring onto Lawrence's pale finger, his own hand trembling. Suddenly the ring slips from his grip and tumbles to the carpet.  
"Oh dear." Lawrence gasps. "In England that is considered bad luck."  
"Then we shall defy luck." Feisal picks the ring up and puts it on the Englishman's middle finger. "See? Safe and snug."  
"Yes." Their foreheads are touching now, noses brushing. It is Lawrence who closes the gap, his lips soft and shy against Feisal's. But they're also adventurous and inquisitive, still learning, still searching for the perfect angles, the right balance.  
There is movement, Feisal can feel it, the shift of muscle and air, the rustle of clothes. Then a hand clasps his own, guides it upwards, inside the now unbuttoned robe and onto bare skin. Surprised, he pulls back, breaking the kiss. For what seems like eternity the two men study each other carefully, neither one budging.  
"Do you..." Feisal begins but Lawrence interrupts him.  
"I want to give you something too, a memory if you will. In case..." His voice trembles ever so slightly. "In case I don't make it to Akaba."  
Feisal's heart almost stops. He is burning now, longing to touch, to taste all that lovely pale skin. He doesn't act on that desire, not yet, he needs to be absolutely certain. "Are you sure you want this? You're not doing this just to make me happy?"  
"Oh, I am. But I'm also doing this to make me happy."  
"Captain Lawrence, you are full of surprises."  
"Are we using honorifics again, your highness?" The response seems casual but there is an undertone, a hint of nervousness. Feisal doesn't say anything, instead he kisses Lawrence deeply, slowly, very slowly and thoroughly until whatever doubts the man might have are gone. He pulls his hand out of the open robe and slides his fingers into golden hair, tilting the other man's head to the side.   
"I believe you enjoyed this." Feisal murmurs, nipping lightly at Lawrence's ear, then gently sucking it. The Englishman makes a tiny, strained noise in the back of his throat, his hands grasping Feisal's shoulders so hard it's almost painful. He lets his head fall further back and Feisal takes advantage of that, running his tongue down the exposed neck, then trailing kisses back upwards.  
"Oh..." Lawrence gasps.  
"Good?" Feisal whispers between kisses.  
"God, yes!"   
So Feisal carries on, tasting sweat, and buries his face in the spot where neck meets collarbone. Lawrence cries out, actually cries out, his entire body shaking. It's so unexpected, that sound, so sudden that both men freeze once again, wide-eyed, gasping for breath. Then two pairs of hands reach out, grasping robes, tugging, pulling, almost ripping the fabric. One by one, cloaks, thawbs, sirwals fall to the ground, exposing more and more flesh. Lawrence trembles with anticipation as Feisal lies him back on the pillows.   
"Kiss me?" He whispers, blushing, and Feisal is more than happy to oblige. Lawrence feels like silk, like the waves in the sea, the wind in the desert. Very responsive, he arches into every kiss, every caress. He is curious too and a little surprised by his own reactions. His hands are now open wide, splayed on Feisal's back. His legs are open too, inviting. They both gasp when their lengths come into contact. Feisal's blood is boiling, burning in his veins and it's just like the dreams he's had only... Only it's better, it's real. And then wet heat spatters between them and Lawrence's body spasms and he cries out again, so surprised, so elated, the very sight pushing Feisal over the edge.  
"Do you want a laugh?" Lawrence murmures a few minutes later, his voice drowsy and soft.  
"Hmm?" Feisal props himself on his elbow to better see him.  
"I believe what we just did is called the Oxford Rub."   
"Seriously?"  
"I wouldn't know. It's not exactly part of the curriculum in Jesus College." Lawrence laughs, a tired little laugh, as he curls into Feisal's arms.   
Feisal holds him close and whispers the words that have been hanging between them, unspoken but known since that kiss in the sea. Lawrence whispers the words back and that is perfection.

The hardest part of goodbye is watching Lawrence leave. Not the last minute packing, not the stolen kiss but the way the crowd of men and camels swallows him almost breaks Feisal's heart. Will they succeed? Will they survive? Will Lawrence survive?  
Feisal wants to curl up in the deepest, darkest cave he can find and cry until he has no more tears left. But there is work to be done, his people need him and not even an aching heart can make him abandon his duties. So Feisal immerses himself in his work, it's a good (if temporary) distraction. Then night falls and with the darkness comes fear. It's a fear so overwhelming it causes physical pain, deep in his chest, like an icy fist clenched around his heart. It keeps Feisal awake. He tries reading but finds himself unable to concentrate, his mind constantly straying into the dangerous territory of "what if". The fist turns into a dagger and starts twisting, burying itself deeper into Feisal's heart, wrenching tears from him. In the end the tears lull him to sleep.   
And then the nightmares begin.

2 months later, Aba el Lissan

Lawrence feels disgusting. His skin is sticky with sweat, dirt and sand. He is extremely thirsty, his head hurts and he's quite sure he's got a fever. He hasn't eaten for days now, the only food left is some sort of corn which is too tough for his teeth and the last thing he needs now is toothache.   
Lawrence has noticed that every now and then some of the Arabs disappear into a tiny cave a few feet away from him. They only stay there briefly but when they emerge they seem a little bit happier or at least less exhausted. He himself feels so bad he would probably sell his soul to the nearest jinn for a minute of relief. It might be worth checking what's in that cave. Whatever it is it must be better than the scorching sun so Lawrence forces his aching body to walk to the cave.   
It's wonderfully cool inside the cave and Lawrence falls to his knees with a groan. His head is spinning, the world around him feels unreal, dreamlike. He crawls further into the cave, its walls swimming and undulating around him.   
There is a tiny spring in the back of the cave. It's very shallow and dusty but Lawrence doesn't care. Clumsily he pulls his sleeve over the palm of his hand and drinks, using the fabric as a filter. It doesn't help much but water is water and there is no point complaining about a bit of sand.   
With a sigh Lawrence rolls onto his back and reaches with his dry hand into the folds of his thawb. He pulls out the ring Feisal gave him and lifts it to his lips. It's warm and smooth against his parched skin. He's taken to wearing the ring on a string around his neck, hidden from view, both for his safety and the safety of his men.  
In the distance someone calls his name but Lawrence finds that he can't answer, his throat is still too dry to produce anything louder than a hoarse whisper. He tries to pull himself to his feet, fails miserably, finds himself once again sprawled on the ground.  
"Feisal..." Lawrence murmures to the ceiling of the cave. "I think I'm dying..."  
Suddenly there is movement above him, a rough hand splashes water onto his face and then Ali looms into view.  
"Don't you dare fucking die!" Ali hisses at him. "Don't you dare break my brother's heart! Now pull yourself together, we've got a bit of a situation outside."  
Lawrence scrambles to his feet. He is needed and he is most definitely not dying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I found the term "Oxford rub" in the Wikipedia article on intercrural sex.  
> The ring described in this chapter is very much real (although scene involving it is entirely fictitious) and is currently on display in the Ashmolean Museum in Oxford.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Feisal receives news. Ali offers "brotherly wisdom". Lawrence thinks about bathtubs.

It's been two months since Lawrence left. Two long months of nightmares, anguish and worry. There is no news, at least no credible news, and Feisal tells himself that no news is good news. But in all honesty no news is just that and he'd rather have the worst news than none at all.  
There is some commotion outside but it doesn't sound violent so Feisal ignores it. There's no point in getting involved right now. He will find out what it was about in the morning.  
"We did it!" A voice screams outside and there's no mistaking to whom that voice belongs.  
"Ali!" Feisal darts out of his tent.   
"We did it!" Ali screams hoarsely. "We conquered Akaba!"  
"You did what now?"  
"Are you deaf?! We conquered Akaba."  
The cold fist inside Feisal's chest relinquishes its grip on his heart. Akaba. Conquered. Taken. Theirs. It's the best news he's had in months. All the pain and sacrifices have paid off. They have done the impossible. Lawrence has done the impossible.   
"What of Captain Lawrence?" Feisal asks as Ali pulls him into a tight embrace. He stinks of sweat, unwashed clothes and camel.  
"He was alive and well last time I saw him. He said he needs to go to Cairo to talk to his superiors. He's going through Sinai."  
Feisal's heart sinks all the way into his stomach.

"There is talk." Ali says. He looks a lot happier now that he's had a chance to bathe and change his clothes. "About a secret agreement signed by the English and the French dividing Arabia between them. And another one signed by the English and the Jews..."  
"Rumours." Feisal interrupts him. "I presume you confronted Lawrence about them."  
"Of course I did. You know me."  
"And what did he say?"  
"He claims to have no knowledge of such agreements. But I think he knows something."  
"Somehow I don't think men of his rank are privy to secret agreements." Feisal says calmly. "Of course he is very perceptive, he may have overheard something, put two and two together..."  
"Be careful, brother. Don't let your heart and your manhood rule over your head."  
Feisal smacks Ali on the back of the head. "Enough of your filth."

Everything about Cairo feels wrong. The traffic, the noise, the way people eye Lawrence suspiciously. The buildings are too tall and stand too close to one another. Lawrence feels trapped. He misses the wide open spaces of the desert.   
The bed in the hotel feels wonderful and too comfortable at the same time. The food is ridiculously bland and overcooked. The cold drinks are amazing though. Lemonade has never tasted better. An icecube bumps against Lawrence's front teeth. He lets it fall into his mouth, holds it on his tongue, allowing it to melt there. It stings a little bit but Lawrence doesn't mind. It's cold and wet and that's all that matters.  
When the drink, icecubes included, is gone Lawrence runs himself a bath. The warm water feels so good against his tired flesh that he actually moans a little as he sinks into the tub. It's almost like a lover's touch. Lawrence reaches for his ring. It's still hanging on that piece of string around his neck. He should have taken it off before getting in the bath but he can't. He feels vulnerable and ridiculously naked without it.  
It's been two months, Lawrence realizes as he absentmindedly strokes his lips with the ring. Two months since he's seen Feisal, kissed him, held him. Two months since that night in Feisal's tent. He still trembles when he thinks of what they shared that night, of the intensity, the pleasure. The mere thought is enough to make his body react. The longing is unlike anything he's ever experienced in his entire life. It's burning, unrelenting.   
Lawrence sinks deeper into the tub. Would Feisal like seeing him like this? Feisal seems to like everything Lawrence offers him. He'd probably enjoy this too. Can two people be intimate in a bathtub? Good question. Lawrence flexes his toes. They barely reach the other end of the tub. If he were to move forward a bit Feisal could sit behind him, wrap his arms around him... But Feisal is so much taller. Where would he put his legs? Could he cross them? Lawrence sits up and experimentally crosses his own legs. They barely fit in the tub like this. Sitting like that won't be an option for Feisal. What on earth am I doing, Lawrence laughs to himself. He forces himself to focus. If he cleans up quickly he can have some sleep. He knows he needs it.

"I need money. My men are waiting to be paid for their service."  
"Fair enough." General Allenby nods.  
"It will have to be sovereigns. Paper has no value for them."  
"That can be arranged."  
"Guns. Lewis guns. Rifles."  
"Alright."  
"Instructors for the Lewis guns. Regrettably, I can't do everything on my own."  
"No, of course not. You shall have guns and instructors."  
"I will need explosives as well. Plenty of explosives."  
"Alright."  
"Artillery."  
"Right." Allenby says after a minute or so of hesitation. "You've proven yourself, captain. You did a bloody good job and I will give you everything you need in order to carry on."  
"Thank you, sir."  
"I'm also promoting you."  
"No." Lawrence gasps in shock.  
"You deserve it, major."  
"Thank you, sir."  
"Anything else, major?"  
"Yes, sir. My men are concerned that if they banish the Turks someone else, either us or the French, will take their place. I assured them we had no intention of doing so. Is that the case?"  
"I am no diplomat, major, I wouldn't know. " Allenby shifts uncomfortably in his chair. "Anyway, I will give you the guns, explosives and money you requested. You will also need cars, won't you?"  
"Yes, sir."  
"Then you shall have them. And tomorrow I will have a plane waiting to take you back to Akaba."  
Lawrence nods. He doesn't like the way Allenby avoided answering the question of Britain's plans for Arabia. It only confirms his suspicions that there is some sort of arrangement between Britain and other countries regarding Arabia. He's not sure what to do now. He can't lie to Feisal and his men. He just can't, it's absolutely, disgustingly wrong and he wants no part of that. But on the other hand his suspicions are just that - suspicions. He can't possibly share them with the Arabs, it would make them lose heart and that's the last thing Lawrence wants. They've come so far, achieved so much. There's no way he's going to jeopardize that. He'd rather fight the Turks, the British and the French than do that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a bit shorter than the previous ones.  
> The secret agreement mentioned is of course the Sykes-Picot agreement.   
> In Seven Pillars Lawrence states that he had no prior knowledge of the existence of the Sykes-Picot agreement. Here's the full quote: "Rumours of the fraud reached Arab ears, from Turkey. In the East persons were more trusted than institutions. So the Arabs, having tested my friendliness and sincerity under fire, asked me, as a free agent, to endorse the promises of the British Government. I had had no previous or inner knowledge of the McMahon pledges and the Sykes-Picot treaty, which were both framed by war-time branches of the Foreign Office. But, not being a perfect fool, I could see that if we won the war the promises to the Arabs were dead paper. Had I been an honourable adviser I would have sent my men home, and not let them risk their lives for such stuff. Yet the Arab inspiration was our main tool in winning the Eastern war. So I assured them that England kept her word in letter and spirit. In this comfort they performed their fine things: but, of course, instead of being proud of what we did together, I was continually and bitterly ashamed."  
> The conversation Lawrence has with Allenby is based on the conversation they have in the movie.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lawrence and Feisal are reunited in Akaba.  
> Consent is asked for and given enthusiastically.  
> Feisal... talks but it's up to you to decide if it's dirty talk or not.  
> There's very little plot in this one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The previous smut scene was received so well! I really hope this one is good enough.  
> If you have any Pride Month prompts/requests for either of my ships feel free to hit me in the comments ;)

Akaba is in ruins. Luckily the harbour is still operational and the Mamluk castle is intact. At least the Turks have taken good care of it, Feisal thinks as he inspects the castle. The bey's quarters have been plundered but the furniture (except for the chairs which have been chopped up and used as firewood) is in good condition so Feisal decides to comandeer them for himself. The rooms are spacious if a bit dark and in desperate need of decluttering. Feisal leaves Hejris to take care of that and heads outside. As he crosses the courtyard a plane flies by, circling above the castle. It's an English plane and Feisal finds himself thinking of the blue tiles in the Sultan Ahmed mosque.  
"I wonder what's on that plane." Ali nudges him in the ribs. "Could be anything. Anyone."  
Feisal nods absently. That plane's quite small, the English wouldn't put valuable cargo on such a tiny machine. If it's not carrying cargo it must be carrying a passenger. But there's no point getting one's hopes up, that passenger could be anybody after all.  
Auda joins them, he and Ali begin discussing the Turkish prisoners and whether they will be sent away to Cairo. Feisal forces himself to pay attention to the conversation. It's important, the prisoners are a drain on their resources and have to be dealt with as soon as possible. The best option would be to have them taken to Cairo where the English will deal with them...  
Struggling to concentrate, Feisal looks up at the gate on the far side of the courtyard. There is a figure there, small, dressed in white. For a split second Feisal thinks it's a ghost or maybe a jinn but the figure looks solid and very familiar.  
"You highness!" Lawrence calls out to him and immediately picks up his pace, crossing the courtyard in long strides.  
"Aurens!" Auda booms jovially. "You're back."  
"Just as I promised." Lawrence smiles. His face looks thin, the skin on his nose is sunburnt. Feisal wants to shower every inch of that gaunt-looking face with kisses.  
"How was Cairo?" Ali asks.  
"Exhausting. But I managed to get us guns, explosives, armoured cars and money to pay the men."  
"And what of the thing we discussed before you left?" Ali probes further. It takes Feisal a few seconds to realize that he's referring to the supposed secret agreement between Britain and France.  
"I asked General Allenby. He claims no such document exists."  
"Do you believe him?" Feisal asks. His throat feels dry and tight with emotion.  
"I don't have a choice." Lawrence sounds bitter. "I don't have access to such documents so I can't verify it for myself."  
"What of the prisoners?" Auda asks.  
"The next supply boat will take them to Cairo."  
"Splendid." Ali pats Lawrence on the shoulder before turning to Auda. "Come, let's tell the prisoners the good news."  
Auda looks like he wants to protest but Ali takes him firmly by the arm and leads him away.  
"My lord." Lawrence says softly.  
"Captain."  
"It's major now. I've been promoted."  
"Congratulations." Feisal can't help but smile with pride. "Do you have a room?"  
"Unfortunately not. I didn't have time to look around."  
"Well, there are still vacant rooms in the castle. Come."  
They walk in silence, side by side, fingertips brushing. Feisal wants to take Lawrence's hand in his, kiss it, kiss _him_ but they're still out in public so he summons all his self-control and focuses on navigating the castle's winding corridors.  
The bey's quarters look a lot better. Hejris has made the bed, gathered the scattered papers from the floor and removed some of the debris. As Lawrence strolls around the rooms, exploring, Feisal takes his servant to the side. "I want you to make sure that nobody comes asking for me or major Lawrence. Under no circumstances are you to let anyone enter my rooms. Send them to Sherif Ali. Is that clear?"  
Hejris nods once and disappears behind the door. There's a key in the lock. Feisal turns it. Privacy is a must. It's been two months and he wants so so badly...  
Lawrence touches his arm and all Feisal's self-control crumbles. He grabs the Englishman by the (shockingly thin) waist, herding him up against the nearest wall and captures his mouth in a deep, fiery kiss.  
"Two months." Feisal murmures, pressing their foreheads together. "It's been two months without you. Without your presence, your touch. I missed you."  
"As did I. I missed you terribly." Lawrence gently manouevres him into another, much slower kiss.  
"I missed your sweet lips." Feisal strokes the aforementioned with his thumb. "I missed that hot little mouth of yours. I missed your beautiful blue eyes and your lovely golden hair. I missed your soft hands. I missed the way you touch me, the way your little body feels against mine."  
Lawrence looks at him with wide eyes and an unreadable expression.  
"Have I upset you?" Feisal can feel himself beginning to panic. "I meant no disrespect."  
"Oh no. No, no, you haven't upset me. It's just... I'm sorry, nobody's ever spoken to me, _about_ me like that."  
"Oh dear. Forgive me. Would you rather I stopped?"  
"No. I... I think I like it." Lawrence drops his gaze timidly. "It feels... Strange. Not in a bad way. I'm just not used to it."  
"Shall I continue?"  
"If you wish."  
"I very much do." Feisal gently tilts Lawrence's chin upwards and kisses him soundly. The Englishman melts into his arms with the softest of whimpers.  
"I missed the sound of your voice." Feisal murmures as he begins trailing kisses along the line of Lawrence's jaw, moving towards his ear. "I missed the sound you make when I do _this_."  
He nips at the lobe, then sucks on it and Lawrence lets out a strained little "oh" of pleasure. He tilts his head sideways, exposing the length of his neck. Feisal wants nothing more than to latch onto that beautiful neck but Lawrence is so much shorter than him and the angle at which they are both bending is backbreaking.  
"We might be more comfortable on the bed." Feisal tells him.  
"I agree." Lawrence pulls away and heads for the bed, shedding his bisht on the way. The gesture, the sight of the garment sliding off his shoulders is unbelievably sensual and innocent at the same time. He doesn't sit on the bed but Feisal does, taking his hands in his own, squeezing them reassuringly.  
"You're not wearing the ring I gave you."  
"I am." Lawrence slips a hand inside his thawb and pulls out a length of string. The ring is hanging from it like a charm on a bracelet. "I couldn't wear it the way it ought to be worn for the sake of safety."  
"I understand. May I?" Feisal reaches for the buttons of Lawrence's thawb.  
"Yes. Yes, of course."  
Feisal takes his time with the buttons, undoing a few, pausing to move the string from which the ring is hanging out of the way, then lavishing the newly exposed skin with kisses and caresses before moving to the next couple of buttons. Lawrence seems to be enjoying that if the breathy gasps and the fingers twining in Feisal's hair are anything to go by.  
"Your skin is so soft, just like silk. Do you like it when I touch you like this?"  
"Yes..."  
"And what if I do this?" Feisal lets his tongue roll over and around one half-hard nipple. The gasps turn into tiny whimpering moans, the fingers in his hair tighten, holding him in place and he doesn't mind that at all, he's quite happy to stay where he is for now. He lets his hand wander towards the other nipple, stroking in time with the movements of his tongue.  
"Feisal... That... _Oh_..."Lawrence's knees almost buckle. Gently, Feisal guides him to lie on the bed and stretches over him, supporting himself on one hand, the other sliding down Lawrence's stomach, past the waistband of his sirwal, finding his hardness, wrapping itself around it, stroking slowly.  
"Does this feel good?" Feisal murmures against the skin of Lawrence's neck.  
"Yes... Oh dear lord, yes!" Lawrence bucks into his hand like he's lost all control over his body. He's beautiful like this and Feisal can't help but watch despite the burning need coursing through his veins.  
With great difficulty Feisal pulls away. Lawrence gazes at him appreciatively as they both undress. "You're built like a god."  
"I've been likened to many things but never a god." Feisal chuckles as he settles back on the bed. "Are you comfortable?"  
"Yes." Lawrence gasps when their bare bodies touch. His legs fall open invitingly and Feisal moves between them, his hard length slides smoothly against Lawrence's.  
"You feel so good." Feisal tells him. "I missed this, giving you pleasure, seeing you like this. Would you allow me to make love to you, to be your first?"  
"Yes, oh yes!"  
There is a bottle of scented oil on the bedside table, conveniently placed just beyond reach. Pulling away a second time is extremely difficult but Feisal has always been a firm believer in doing things the right way, especially when it comes to matters of love. He takes his time with this, plenty of oil, one finger at first, then two, scissoring, stroking, slowly, carefully, he doesn't want to hurt Lawrence. He'd never forgive himself if he did.  
A little more oil now, they're both as ready as can be and Lawrence whimpers when Feisal enters him. His body feels so hot and tight, so perfect. It takes a lot of willpower to stay still, not thrust into that welcoming heat. Then suddenly the body beneath him undulates lightly, testing the waters and Feisal takes it as an invitation to move. So he does, once, twice, again, this time adjusting the angle of his thrusts and Lawrence moans, arching against him.  
"Good?" Feisal murmures into his hair, kissing his temple.  
"Dear God, _yes_!"  
So Feisal memorizes that angle, repeats it again and again, clutching a fistful of golden hair. Slender legs wrap around him and he picks up his pace. Those undulating hips speed up too, rising to meet every single thrust, nails dig into his shoulders, not quite hurting but not gentle either. He's close, so close but he can't... Not yet, not until...  
Lawrence's entire body clenches around Feisal and he cries out as he comes, untouched.  
"You beautiful, marvelous creature." Feisal gasps as his own release washes through him. He feels boneless, weightless, still wrapped in the cocoon of Lawrence's limbs. The world around them is perfectly silent, seemingly frozen in time, the air vibrating with the pleasure they'd just shared.  
A hand pushes feebly at Feisal's shoulder and he realizes that his weight must be making it hard for Lawrence to breathe.  
"I'm sorry." Feisal rolls onto his side. "Are you alright?"  
"Yes." Lawrence touches his hand with trembling fingers. "I feel... I'm not sure... Complete in a way, I think. Yes, I feel complete. Thank you."  
"It was my privilege."  
Somewhere outside a dog starts barking, soon others join in. Feisal lets his eyes slide shut. He's quite sure the world can carry on without him for an hour or two. Lawrence shifts closer to him and he puts an arm around him. At last everything is as it should be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you need a height reference for Lawrence and Feisal then here's a video:   
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cuoY8T_u6gA  
> If you skip to 1:35 you get to see Lawrence and Feisal side by side. You can also see Lowell Thomas shaking Feisal's hand.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have not abandoned this story! I'm so sorry, I had terrible writer's block with this one. This chapter was initially meant to be a fluffy little filler but then I changed my mind about it, started doing the relationship building and got stuck.  
> The line Feisal reads out loud in the beginning of the chapter is not a real quote, it's just me taking the piss.

"Queen of my heart, moon of my life, crowning jewel of my desire." Feisal reads out loud. The book is a terribly written, cheap romance novel, one of many he's found lying on the floor of his room.

"Are you talking to me?" Lawrence asks, twisting to look up at him.

They're in bed, Feisal sitting up against the headboard with Lawrence half-lying on his chest. The mattress is littered with papers, documents of all sorts. Lawrence has been sorting through them for days now, trying to determine what is relevant information and what is useless trash.

"Just reading." Feisal taps Lawrence's bare shoulder with the book. The Englishman takes it from him and started flipping through the pages.

"This is rubbish." He declares. "Why on earth would someone as intelligent and educated as you indulge in something so... low quality?"

"Call it a guilty pleasure."

"Oh? I don't think any pleasure should be considered guilty." Lawrence sits up and turns around to face Feisal. "I may be surprised by your literary choices but to be absolutely honest I think we should be free to enjoy whatever books, art, music or sport we want, no matter how idiotic it might seem. I think we should be free to love whoever we want, regardless of sex, race, class or social obligation. I don't think governments or men of the cloth should be allowed to tell me who I can or cannot love."

"I agree." Feisal rests his hand on Lawrence's knee, stroking lightly. "It should be up to the individual to decide."

"You are truly ahead of the times and society you were born in."

"As are you. You're all I could ever hope for in a companion, a soulmate. My..." Feisal searches for the appropriate English word for a minute. "My sweetheart."

"Oh." Lawrence leans forward and kisses him. "I love it when you speak English. I love your accent."

"And I love it when you speak Arabic. It's like an adventure, listening to you."

"My Arabic is atrocious."

"Don't be silly." Feisal tugs at Lawrence's ankle, prompting him to uncross his legs and move closer to straddle him. He lets his hand wander upwards, from that jutting ankle bone, over the knee, to the warm skin of the thigh, stroking and scratching gently, with the faintest hint of fingernails.

"Feisal..." Lawrence's voice is little more than a whisper.

"Yes, sweetheart?"

"Please forgive me, I don't think I can keep up with you, with your appetite."

Oh. 

Feisal has already noticed that, while clearly pleased with the attentions he is getting, Lawrence does not have much of an appetite himself. Sooner or later this would have to be addressed.

"Do you remember when I kissed you for the first time? In Wejh?" Feisal asks.

"How could I possibly forget? We went into the sea..."

"Yes and then I took you to my tent. We kissed and I told you that if you ever feel overwhelmed or frightened all you have to do is say a word and I will stop."

"Yes, I remember. Are you sure this is alright? You're not upset or angry with me? I would hate to be a disappointment to you. You are a passionate and sensual man, you have needs."

"I have needs but I also have a head. I can control myself and my urges. Do you remember what else I said in Wejh? I said that no matter where this war takes us we will have all the time in the world for this. We have all the time in the world to explore and learn. This is just part of the process."

"All I want is for you to be happy and satisfied."

"I am. I would be happy just sitting at your side for the rest of my life."

Lawrence looks at him with a mixture of disbelief and utter devotion. "Why?"

"I love and respect you. Don't ever doubt that."

"And I love you."

"I know." Feisal pulls Lawrence in for a kiss. "Now come back here please. I rather enjoy holding you."

Lawrence laughs softly and rearranges himself on the bed, resting his head on Feisal's chest. This type of peacefulness bordering on domesticity happens extremely rarely and when it does they cherish every second of it.  
With an almighty shout Hejris announces a Mr Lowell Thomas from America and the moment is gone. Lawrence gathers his clothes, straightens himself out and slips out of the room, giving Feisal a look they both know means "until tonight".

 

"Must you go? The men can handle themselves, they're trained to use the explosives."

"I don't doubt the men, Feisal. I've been sitting on my backside for the last two weeks, I have to do something or I will lose my mind and you know it."

"Forgive me. I know we already discussed this but still I can't help worrying." Feisal squeezes Lawrence's hands. "You are the most precious thing in world to me."

"It's only a few days. And Mr Thomas wants to see some action as he likes to call it. Hopefully if he sees the action he will go away. I'm tired of him, he asks too many personal questions."

"Do you think he suspects something?"

Lawrence ponders the issue for a minute. "No. I don't think he does. For a journalist he's surprisingly... unobservant? Is that a word?"

"It absolutely is. You learn fast."

"I'm good with languages." Lawrence positively glows at the praise. Feisal makes a mental note to start showering him with more praise and compliments when he returns from his raid.

Their goodbye is a quick one, a brief but deep kiss, an embrace and Lawrence is gone. It's only a few days, Feisal tells himself, it's nothing like the march to Akaba. In a few days Lawrence will be back, the journalist will leave and they will have some peace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been reading various theories about Lawrence's sexuality. There are ever so many: he was gay, he was homoromantic and ace, he was extremely repressed, he was heterosexual but sex-repulsed.  
> Personally, I struggle to believe that a 100% heterosexual man would say: “I take no pleasure in women. I have never thought twice or even once of the shape of a woman: but men’s bodies, in repose or in movement – especially the former, appeal to me directly and very generally.”   
> For the purpose of this story Lawrence is homosexual with a low sex drive. In regard to his views on sexuality, a number of his friends (Siegfried Sassoon, E.M. Forster) said that while he showed no apparent interest in sex he was very accepting of his friends' sexualities. Sassoon and Forster both engaged in relationships with men.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas, here's a new chapter!  
> I am SO SORRY for the long break, I was horrifically blocked on this one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge thank you to Christina_Marie for the conversations, the brainstorming and for helping me overcome the block. You're the real MVP.

Akaba, 1917

"Where can I find Major Lawrence?" The American journalist is extremely annoying. He's not interested in the Cause, the Revolt. He's interested in money, in finding a story that will earn him money. And he's interested in Lawrence, too much so for Feisal's liking. 

Major Lah-rence. That's what the name sounds like in that loud, harsh American accent. Like he can't pronounce it properly. 

"I don't know." Feisal says. The American looks perplexed, staring blankly at him.

Feisal hates not knowing. He has a rough idea of where the army is, one can't be a leader and not have such knowledge. But he doesn't know exactly where Lawrence is. With whom. In what shape. They move too fast to be able to report every single relocation. Not to mention that sending a messenger is simply too risky. Making detours in search of a telegraph would not only be risky, it would be foolish. Lawrence is not a foolish man and neither is Feisal. 

He promises the American a camel and a guide, neglects to tell him there already is one American journalist out there with Lawrence and his men, then leaves. His heart aches. This must be how Mother felt every time Father went to war, he realises.

That night Feisal lies in bed (an actual bed, headboard, mattress, pillows, the lot) and stares at the ceiling. There is never time for ceiling-gazing when Lawrence is around. The ceiling can't compete with blue eyes and golden-blonde hair. Feisal sighs deeply and sits up, too worried to sleep. He gets up, heads to the window and lights a cigarette. It's a clear night, Lawrence is probably star-gazing instead of resting. He has so much energy, wants to do so many things at once that he often pushes himself beyond exhaustion, to the point of fainting. They are quite alike, the English officer and the Arab prince.  
Feisal finishes his cigarette and heads back to bed. He must at least try to get some rest. Tomorrow is bound to be another long day.

 

The American (Bentley is his name) leaves in the morning, accompanied by a guide. Feisal is glad to see the back of him. The man is stupid, fake and quite rude. He thinks he's better than the Arabs. Hopefully, a stint in the desert with Lawrence will humble him. 

A week later Bentley returns. Along with Lawrence, Mr Thomas and the rest of the men. The two Americans are conversing in a strained but polite fashion, trying to size up one another. 

Lawrence looks tired, like he hasn't slept for days (which probably is the case) and his sleeve is stained with blood, the sight instantly turning Feisal's stomach into ice. This is war, he's perfectly aware of that, and wounds are an integral part of war but still seeing Lawrence hurt shakes Feisal to his very core. "What happened?"

"Nothing." Lawrence replies in Arabic. "I brought you a gift."

"Don't change the subject."

"Can we talk about it in private?"

"There won't be much talking in private and you know it."

Lawrence doesn't say another word, he simply gathers his kitbag and heads towards the castle. Feisal's pretty sure he's smiling.

 

"Don't I even get a kiss?" Feisal asks teasingly once they've reached the privacy of their quarters.

"I stink." Lawrence gives him what can only be described as a Look. "I need a bath, a shave and a change of clothes. Until I've had that you, habibi, are getting nothing."

"Be my guest."

"I _live_ here." Lawrence installs himself in a far corner of the room with a bowl and a jug of water and begins shedding his filthy, blood-stained robes. "Can you please stop staring?"

"Forgive me." Feisal sits on the carpet, deliberately facing away from Lawrence.

"I'm sorry." The Englishman is instantly apologetic. "For the past few weeks I've had no privacy whatsoever. I just want five minutes to clean up and start feeling like a human being again."

"That's perfectly understandable. Don't worry about it. Anyway, was your raid successful?"

"Yes, we caught a few supply trains, the explosives performed spectacularly, I daresay. My American companions were impressed." Lawrence says over the splash of water and the scrape of the bowl against the stone floor. "They're from rival newspapers, I gather. They're trying ever so hard to be civil but I'm certain one of them will eventually crack and do something... ungentlemanly."

"What happened to your shoulder?"

"Nothing of any significance."

"Sweetheart..."

"I'm not talking now, I'm shaving."

Feisal has to admit defeat. There's no point in pushing Lawrence to talk about it. He'll open up when he's ready. 

The wound worries Feisal. He wants to examine it, see for himself, make sure it's dressed properly and isn't becoming infected. He wants to soothe the pain it must surely be causing, he wants to kiss the skin around the wound, kiss a bit further up Lawrence's shoulder, along his collarbone, up his neck...

"I'm a human being again." Lawrence sits on the carpet directly in front of Feisal. He's dressed in a clean thawb, the top buttons of which are unbuttoned. 

"Now can I kiss you?"

Lawrence doesn't answer. Instead he closes the remaining distance between them and presses his lips against Feisal's. At first it's slow and sweet, then a hand slips under a robe (neither will later be able to remember whose hand it was) and the fire explodes. It's all wandering mouths, garments and limbs tangling, passion, desperation, so hot and fierce...

Lawrence gasps, surprised, when Feisal scoops him into his arms and carries him to bed. "I was half-expecting to be ravished right there on the floor."

"Not while you're hurt. And believe me, the floor is overrated."

 

It's not until a few hours later, after they'd reassured one another that they're alive and in reasonably good shape, and after gifts had changed hands (a few packets of German and Turkish cigarettes, apparently willingly surrendered by the prisoners, are a very welcome surprise) that Feisal gets a chance to examine Lawrence's wound.

"It's nothing, believe me." The Englishman rolls his eyes but removes the bandage. The wound is small and shallow. It looks about a week old and luckily seems to be healing well, there's no sign of infection, no odd colouring (other than the expected redness) and no foul smell. 

"You should have returned." 

"I had work to do."

"Work that could easily have been delegated."

"Are you scolding me for doing my job?"

"No, sweetheart, I'm scolding you for your blatant disregard for your own health."

"Are you going to punish me?" Lawrence laughs and Feisal finds that he can no longer be annoyed with him.

"I should put you over my knee." He teases. "But instead I'm going to ask you to stay here with me at least until your arm has healed. I'm sure your medical officer will agree with me."

"Very well, I'll stay. I need time to plan your advance into Syria anyway. Allenby's headed for Jerusalem, Damascus will be his next step. I want you there before him."

"Inshallah, we shall be in Damascus together."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter will be about Deraa so brace yourselves.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lawrence heads to Deraa.  
> Trigger warnings for violence, trauma and rape.

From the Turkish Army's point of view the Arabs are not soldiers, they are rebels and the Geneva Code doesn't apply to them. Which means they can be treated with unspeakable cruelty, tortured, humiliated and killed.

Major Lawrence makes a point of abiding by the Geneva Code to the letter. They are cruel but that doesn't mean we should lower ourselves to their level, he likes to say and Feisal agrees. All Turkish prisoners of war are brought to Akaba, fed, watered, housed and provided with medical assistance until they can be sent to Cairo.

The doctor can barely speak Turkish so Lawrence frequently sits in during physicals and translates. Feisal usually doesn't accompany him, he has his own duties but today is different. Some of the prisoners in today's transport are from Deraa, it's imperative that they be separated from the others and interrogated. Time is of the essence.

There is something... off about the soldiers from Deraa. They're all very young and very frightened, in fact some are so terrified they won't let the doctor touch them. The ones who do cooperate all have diseases that can be contracted only in one way. 

As informants they are absolutely useless, either too frightened to speak or simply unable to provide any relevant information. Feisal feels sorry for them, he knows he shouldn't but he does. The atrocities those men survived... No one deserves that, no one.

Lawrence is frustrated, both with the sluggish progress of the campaign and with his still aching arm. He vents that frustration at the improvised shooting range set up by the British sailors or by playing childish tricks on anyone and everyone. One of the tricks results in Mr Bentley accusing Mr Thomas of sabotaging his camera, Mr Thomas then purposefully destroying some of Mr Bentley's negatives and both engaging in a rather entertaining fist fight. Mr Thomas emerges victorious, much to Feisal's satisfaction.

 

_November 1917, Akaba_

"Stay with me." Feisal murmurs against the soft skin below Lawrence's ear. "After Damascus is conquered. Stay with me."

"You really want to discuss this _now_?" Lawrence's voice is none too steady. He rubs his heel against the small of Feisal's back, coaxing him to move.

"Why not?" Feisal obliges, setting a gentle, slow rhythm. Lawrence tips his head backwards with a blissful sigh. 

"I'd love to."

"We'll find you a nice museum to run then." 

Lawrence laughs and Feisal _feels_ the laughter, a delicious pulsing sensation that seems to travel through his entire body. All his resolve to go slowly, to make this last as long as possible crumbles. He thrusts harder, faster than before and Lawrence clings to him, holding on like his life depends on it, pulling him down for desperate, open-mouthed kisses.

"You're so beautiful..." Feisal gasps between kisses. "You're beautiful... You're perfect... and all mine."

Lawrence makes a sound caught between a moan and a laugh, his hips rocking against Feisal, frantically chasing his release. The sight of him like that, completely uninhibited, is breathtaking and the cry of pleasure he lets out when he comes is probably the sweetest thing in the whole world.

"Feisal?" Lawrence murmurs drowsily.

"Yes, sweetheart?"

"I think you should establish that museum somewhere close to the university. By the river maybe. It's beautiful there."

"Oh absolutely. I wouldn't want you to work in unappealing surroundings. Now rest, you need it."

 

As usual their goodbyes are quick: a kiss, an embrace and then Lawrence is gone. The moment the door clicks shut behind him fear settles like a cold weight in the pit of Feisal's stomach. His future and that of his people depends on the success of this campaign. So many other things depend on this campaign.

One day Feisal finds a map of Damascus, hidden between Turkish field reports and maps of the railway. It's an old map, from before the war, beautifully coloured and decorated. Smiling wistfully, Feisal follows the blue line that is the Barada river until he finds the university. He imagines the museum, housed maybe in one of the medieval buildings in the area, filled with art and treasures and visitors. He imagines Lawrence as its director, proud of his collection as a father would be proud of his children. The idea thrills him.

Weeks after Lawrence's departure the first snow falls. The British soldiers are ecstatic, they build fortifications and hold very noisy snowball fights between themselves and the Arabs. Ali's dogs, currently Feisal's responsibility, take part too, trying to catch the snowballs in midair. Watching them is a welcome distraction.

December brings more snow but no news. 

And then the men return.

 

The first thing Feisal notices is the large, vaguely shoe-shaped bruise on Lawrence's face. 

The second thing Feisal notices is the tension in his shoulders, the tightness of his movements, like his entire body is hurting. He struggles to dismount, almost falling over in the process but flinches when Ali tries to help him.

When Feisal embraces him Lawrence tenses up even more. He feels very cold.

"Are you alright?" Feisal asks, heart pounding with worry.

"Yes, yes, of course I'm alright. Why wouldn't I be?!" Lawrence lets out a fake, nervous giggle. His eyes, his beautiful blue eyes, are hollow, as if someone had snuffed the light in them. "I'm sorry, I have to go and debrief."

"Will I see you tonight?"

Lawrence doesn't answer, he just turns around and walks away, heading towards the harbour. Feisal wants to follow him but is stopped by a firm hand on his shoulder.

"We need to talk." Ali whispers urgently. "In private."

 

"Feisal, I am so, so sorry." Ali starts the minute the door shuts behind him.

"Why? What do you mean?"

"Lawrence went into Deraa with Mohammed and that fucking traitor Abd El Kadir. He was captured and held for a day and a night..."

"You let him!" Ali of the Harith interrupts him. "He shouldn't have gone there in the first place but you allowed it!"

"It is not my place to tell him where he can and can't go!" Ali screams back. "Why didn't you go with him, you fucking smart-arse?! You could have..."

"Don't you dare! Don't you dare put this on me! Were you not a descendant of the Prophet, peace be upon him, I would have ripped your head off with my bare hands!"

"Shut up, both of you!" Feisal bellows. "One at a time!"

"Let him tell you." Ali of the Harith bows and storms off, slamming the door behind him. Feisal lights two cigarettes, one for himself and one for his brother, and sits on the carpeted floor.

"Speak." 

Ali takes a long, shuddering drag on his cigarette before starting.

"They went into Deraa to look at the train station, the airfield and the garrison. Three of them, Lawrence, Mohammed and Abd El Kadir. Lawrence insisted on going, he wanted to see for himself. You know what he's like. Why have someone do it for him when he can do it himself."

"Yes." Feisal nods.

"So." Ali continues. "When they didn't come back I decided to wait an hour and send out a search party. I was about to do that when Mohammed returned alone. And then I knew that something had gone really fucking wrong. So I asked him what happened and he said Lawrence got arrested and that he saw the Turks giving Abd El Kadir money. He says he took care of him."

"What about Lawrence?"

"Mohammed said it wasn't safe to go in so we waited. He came back the next day, dressed in clothes that weren't his, acting like... I don't know. He wouldn't talk, wouldn't eat, wouldn't sleep. And when he did sleep... He woke up screaming, calling for you." Ali takes another shaky drag on his cigarette. "He's in a lot of pain, Feisal. They whipped him within an inch of his life. And... and... good heavens, I don't know what... they... Fucking hell, they did something to him, something absolutely horrific. There was so much blood, Feisal, so much blood. And it was everywhere, it was on his back, down his legs... It's a miracle he's not ill."

Feisal's heart nearly stops. "Down his legs? What do you mean?"

Ali stutters and breaks down in tears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The museum Feisal and Lawrence are discussing is the National Museum of Damascus. It didn't exist in 1917 but was founded in 1919 under Feisal's reign as king of Syria.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Feisal tries to handle the aftermath of Deraa.

The door creeks open, rousing Feisal from his sleep. Then comes a thud, a yelp and a whispered "damn" followed by a hushed "I'm sorry, good dog, good dog".  
It's still dark outside, the only light is the fire blazing in the hearth, casting a warm glow on the room, the dogs curled on the floor and Lawrence sitting amongst them, comforting the one he'd just tripped over.

"Sweetheart." Feisal sits up.

"Go back to sleep." Lawrence's response is curt, clipped. "I just need one of the maps."

"It's the middle of the night. Have you rested at all?"

"I had a bath."

"But did you rest? Did you sleep?"

"I had to debrief and write my reports." 

"I will take that as a no then. Come to bed, sweetheart, you need to sleep."

"I'm fine." Lawrence shakes his head. "There's work to be done."

"That can wait till morning. Please, you need to rest."

"I don't want to sully your bed."

Feisal opens his mouth to speak but freezes, suddenly reminded of something Ali had said earlier: _There was so much blood, Feisal, so much blood. And it was everywhere, it was on his back, down his legs..._

"How would you sully my... our bed? Because of your wounds? Sweetheart, it's only sheets, they can be changed and washed." He finally manages.

"Alright." With a reluctant sigh Lawrence staggers to his feet and slowly crosses the room. He arranges himself on the bed with great care, lying on his side on the very edge of the mattress, his cloak tightly drawn around him.

"What happened here?" With all the tenderness he possesses Feisal traces the outline of the bruise on Lawrence's cheek. The man's jaw clenches beneath his fingertips.

"Nothing. Just a case of mistaken identity." Again, the response is clipped. 

"Come." Feisal rolls onto his back and extends an arm. "You should try to get some sleep."

Lawrence nods stiffly and moves closer, resting his head on Feisal's chest. His entire body feels rigid, cold, like a walking, breathing corpse. It's evident that the Turks did far more than just beat him. 

Lawrence's breathing slows, evens out and Feisal allows himself to shut his eyes. The moment he does the body beside him shifts and rolls away, back to the edge of the bed.

 

What wakes Feisal a couple of hours later is the splash of water and what sounds like crying.

Lawrence is half-naked,  kneeling over the bowl he usually uses for washing. He's facing the wall and from where Feisal's lying he has a perfect view of the man's back. Which is covered with long, bloodied welts, criss-crossing, overlapping, some curling over his shoulders, others reaching all the way to his ribs. Some of the welts have cracked open and are bleeding.

The washcloth hits Lawrence's arm with a wet smack. He scrubs furiously, seemingly trying to scrub his skin off, his breathing ragged. As abruptly as he'd started he stops, throws the cloth into the water and sinks into a sideways sitting position, sobbing.

"Oh sweetheart." Feisal scrambles out of the bed and tries to put his arms around Lawrence.

"Don't touch me!" The Englishman shakes him off violently. "Don't! I'm unclean."

"You're not unclean but if you don't want me to touch you then I will not." Feisal retreats. "Have you been to the doctor's?"

"I don't need the doctor."

"Sweetheart, if those wounds become infected..."

"I am handling it!" Lawrence spits out. "I can look after myself, thank you very much, _my lord._ "

He grabs a robe, throws it on and storms off, pausing only to bow mockingly.

 

Lawrence is acting very strangely. One minute he seems fine, talking happily to people, giving out orders, making plans. The other he's in tears, trembling, struggling to compose himself. A number of times Feisal has seen him freeze halfway through a task or conversation and just gaze into space. He barely eats, barely sleeps, constantly running between the ship and the town. It's extremely hard to see him like that.

"He's avoiding me." Feisal tells Ali, the only person in the world he can trust (despite all Ali's faults) with the most intimate details of his life. "He won't speak to me unless it's about war. He's taken to sleeping on the ship..."

"He's been wounded very deeply." Ali says. "And it's not just the wounds on his body. His soul has been wounded too."

"I can see that and I don't know how to help him."

"I don't think you can help him. Not now at least. All you can do is give him time."

"Tell me exactly what happened." 

"I can't, I wasn't there. I only saw the... the aftermath."

"You said there was blood down his legs. You know what the Turks do to their prisoners, to their own soldiers. So I am asking you now, do you think they did the same to him?"

"I don't know." Ali buries his face in his hands. "I can't tell you for sure but I think they did."

He's right, Feisal realises, the wounds on Lawrence's back, the blood, his peculiar behaviour, the way he won't let anyone touch him, not unlike the young Turkish soldiers they'd interrogated mere weeks earlier... 

Feisal's heart shatters in his chest.

 

"I'm leaving." Lawrence says later that day over meat, rice and tea.

"Oh?" Feisal clings to his composure with all his might. This is... unexpected, to say the least.

"General Allenby's entering Jerusalem, I've been invited to attend the parade."

"Will I see you again?"

Silence.

Long, heavy silence.

"I don't know." Lawrence drops his gaze. His hand flutters upwards, to his chest, to where Feisal knows his ring is hanging on its leather cord, then falls back into his lap. "I really don't know."


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Important conversations are had. Lawrence returns from Jerusalem.  
> Trigger warning for an unpleasant conversation with a Turkish prisoner, involving discussion of torture and rape.

Feisal pulls out a cigarette, puts it in his mouth, lights it, then pockets his lighter. He adjusts himself in the doctor's wooden office chair and crosses his legs. The young man seated at the other side of the desk watches him intently, eyes filled with terror and a peculiar sort of hunger, not one for food but for something else.

"What's your name?" Feisal pulls out another cigarette, lights it and hands it to the man.

"Ahmet, effendi." He takes a long drag, releases the smoke slowly, savouring it.

"Where are you from, Ahmet?"

"Iluh."

"That's in Siirt, isn't it?"

"Yes, effendi. But it's a shi-... It's boring. Small town, nothing ever happens. I was happy when they drafted me. Thought I'd get to see a bit of the world, earn enough to make a better life for my family." Ahmet sighs bitterly. "They sent me to Deraa. It was just as bad as Iluh. But I'm a simple country lad, me. It's the educated ones that go places, the ones with _skills_."

"And your superiors?" 

"My superiors?" Ahmet recoils, instantly rigid in his chair.

"Yes. Tell me about them."

Ahmet looks away. He takes a last drag of his cigarette, then drops the butt into the doctor's abandoned tea cup.

"Fuck it." He mutters. "I don't owe them shit anymore, excuse my language, effendi..."

"It's alright. I've heard worse." Feisal smiles reassuringly.

"Well... umm... There's this sergeant, he's a right bastard. He's got this whip, you see. And he _loves_ using it. Any reason's good for him. He uses it on us, on the prisoners, when we have prisoners... They're all touched in their heads, the officers. They like to watch him beat people. Or... or..."

"Yes?" Feisal presses gently. "Carry on, there is no judgement here."

"They do things to the prisoners and... and to... to us, if there are no prisoners. Bad things..."

"The officers, do they do those things to all the prisoners?" Feisal asks, dreading the answer.

Ahmet doesn't answer, his eyes fixed on a spot on the wall.

"Do they do those things to all the prisoners?" Feisal repeats a little louder.

"What?! Oh... Ugh..." Ahmet stutters. "They... Yes, they do it to all the prisoners. The sergeant... he did it to me and to some of the other lads... He... he said he had to... to break us in. That we had to be... taught."

The blood in Feisal's veins grows cold. 

_There was so much blood, so much blood. And it was everywhere, it was on his back, down his legs..._

"They... they take turns, you know." Ahmet continues, now rocking back and forth in his chair. "And... And..."

"I've heard enough." Feisal raises a hand, sickened. "You were very helpful and for that you will be rewarded. Someone will bring you food and coffee."

"Thank you, effendi." Ahmet's face lights up at the mention of food. He even stands up and salutes Feisal when he leaves the room.

 

He can barely see, blinded by the tears in his eyes and the wind in his face. His fingers hurt from how tightly they're gripping the reins. His chest hurts too from how fast his heart is pounding inside it. 

Akaba is little more than a dot on the horizon now. Feisal brings his horse to a halt and dismounts gracelessly, falling to his knees. The animal muzzles him affectionately, as if sensing his distress. He presses his face against her cheek and weeps.

Feisal's no fool, he's seen what atrocities the Turks are capable of. He knows that war means bloodshed, cruelty. But somehow it had never occurred to him that he himself or someone close to him, one of his brothers, his beloved, could be hurt and in such a horrific way.

It all makes sense now. Lawrence's wounds, his odd behaviour, the way he'd shied away from touch. His sudden departure. The things Ali had said about the blood and the wound in his soul.

To violate someone in such a fashion, to invade them like that, the very idea fills Feisal with disgust and terror. And to do such a thing to someone like Lawrence, someone so pure, so beautiful and sweet... That enrages him.

_I should have been there, sweetheart. I should have protected you._

The rage is bubbling in his stomach, in his chest, threatening to erupt, to explode and set the whole world on fire. If only he could go to Deraa now, find those men...

But that will not undo the wrong that has already been done, that will not heal Lawrence's wounds.

But maybe love can.

 

Lawrence returns with explosives and money. His eyes are still hollow, his smile still forced but at least he's back. The bruise on his face is gone, his skin as clear and smooth as before. Feisal aches to touch him, to shower him with affection, to show him how much he loves him, no matter what.

That night Lawrence comes to the room they once shared in the castle.

"I must speak to you." He sits on the carpet, wrapping his winter cloak tightly around his thin frame. "And ask for your forgiveness."

"Why is that?" Feisal sits beside him, alarmed.

"I lied to you. My superiors lied to me too and I suspected that they were lying but instead of questioning them I simply repeated their lies to you. For that I apologise with all my heart."

"I don't follow."

"Your brother questioned me about a supposed secret agreement between Britain and France. One regarding Arabia's future after the war. I told you and your brother no such agreement existed. I lied and for that I beg your forgiveness."

"I remember that conversation. You said you had no choice but to believe your general. Was that a lie?"

"No, no. It wasn't."

"You also said you couldn't verify whether the document existed or not. Was that a lie?"

"No."

"Then there is nothing to forgive. There was no lie."

"Still..."

"Have you seen the agreement my father signed with your country?"

"No, I haven't."

"The agreement guarantees my people independence but only after the interests of Britain's allies have been secured. I hope for an independent Arabia but I have no illusions."

"I will give you an independent Arabia. I will give you Damascus." There's a ferocity in Lawrence's voice that Feisal's never heard before. "I will put a crown on your head and that crown will be taken from you over my dead body."

Silence falls, broken only by the sound of waves crashing against the shore.

"I too have something I need to discuss with you." Feisal says, choosing his words carefully. "I would like to make sure that all is well between us."

"Yes?"

"Your scouting mission in Deraa."

Lawrence stiffens. "What of it?"

"I spoke to some of the prisoners. I think I understand what happened to you in Deraa and..."

"With all due respect, Feisal, you don't understand. No one will ever understand."

"The prisoners told me what the officers in Deraa did to them and to others."

"Then you know my shame."

"Your... your shame? No, no, sweetheart, what _they_ did was shameful, not you."

Lawrence lets out a nervous bark of a laugh. "Please, don't. I am unclean now and you... You come from a very noble family. There is no place for one like me in your heart or your bed."

"Do you wish to end our involvement?"

The silence is heavier than earlier. It feels like the entire world is holding its breath.

Lawrence doesn't say a word but his eyes fill with tears. One escapes, running down his cheek, he captures it quickly, wiping it on the heel of his hand.

"You will always have a place in my heart, my soul and my bed." Feisal tells him, his throat tight with emotion. "Nothing can change that."

"You don't know what they did to me, what... what they made me do."

"Whatever happened it does _not_ change the way I feel about you. You will always be my sweetheart. Don't ever forget that. If time is what you need then..."

"Can I stay the night here?" Lawrence looks up, his eyes wet, cheeks stained with tears.

"Yes, of course. You don't have to ask. These are still your quarters." 

"Thank you." With a brisk movement of his hand Lawrence wipes his face, then curls up on the carpet with his back to Feisal.

 

The night is anything but peaceful. Lawrence, usually a very calm, deep sleeper, now writhes, kicks and talks. Every now and then he wakes, screaming. Those cries of "no, please!" break Feisal's already shattered heart. 

"Hush, sweetheart, you're safe. I'm here with you." Feisal tells Lawrence gently at every such violent awakening. He doesn't dare touch him, lest he frighten him any further.

After the third awakening Feisal manages to coax Lawrence into moving to the bed. The Englishman goes easily, too exhausted to put up a fight. He is asleep within minutes of laying his head on the pillow. 

It feels strange to lay beside him, share the bed with him yet not touch him, not hold him. As he stares at the cracked ceiling Feisal lets his thoughts wander. He thinks about Wejh, seawater lapping at his knees, soaking the hem of his thawb, a slender arm wrapping itself around his neck. He thinks about long, slow nights, so rare and because of their infrequency so much more special. Nights full of tenderness, discovery, love. Warm lips and shy hands. Passion. Laughter. The simple joy of being together, of having private quarters and a proper bed.

A mere month ago in this very bed they'd talked about the future. A month ago they'd had a future. 

Now Feisal isn't so sure.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Months have passed since Lawrence's return from Deraa. But not all is well...  
> Trigger warning for discussions of violence, rape and the massacre at Tafas.

_Guweira, 1918_

 

The floor feels cold beneath his feet, the walls, dirty white plaster over grey stone, seem to be closing in on him. He's disoriented, unsure where he is and why. All he knows is he needs to keep moving.

"No!" A scream pierces the air. "No, please, no! No... Feisal!"

He pauses, hit by a sudden feeling of clarity.

"No! Please, effendi, no!" The scream comes again. Feisal heads towards it, dreading it but fiercely aware that he has to find its source, no matter what.

"No!" This time the scream seems to be coming from behind him. Feisal turns around, breaks into a run. The corridors feel endless, tangled like a maze, suffocating. And the screaming, it's constant, torturous, like knives drilling into him endlessly, relentlessly.

Once again the sound shifts and Feisal can't breathe, can't run, can't stand. He's falling, sinking... And suddenly everything stops. 

"Aw no!" Someone laughs nearby, mere feet away from where Feisal is lying. "You killed him!"

The laughter's coming from behind a corner right in front of him and Feisal crawls towards it, careful not to make a sound. He peeks around the corner.

There's a body lying on the floor, naked, pale and covered in blood. The body is surrounded by Turkish soldiers, they tower over it, over Feisal.

The body twitches, the head snaps back, blue eyes fixed on Feisal and there's screaming again, only it's not like the screaming from before and all of a sudden he's not in that corridor anymore, he's in his tent, shivering, soaked in cold sweat, and Hejris is by his side, concerned.

"Permission to speak freely, my lord?" The servant asks. Feisal nods, he can't trust his voice.

"You're worried for Aurens." Hejris continues, using the moniker given Lawrence by the Arabs. "He's hurt and you don't know how to help him."

Feisal nods again.

"He's not letting you help. And that scares you because you hate feeling powerless."

"I fear for him." Feisal whispers hoarsely, unable to speak up.

"He knows that but that knowledge is not helping him. He's aiming to conquer Damascus before the year is out and he needs you focused on that, not on him."

"I can't..."

"You can. You have all your life. You're a descendant of the Prophet, peace be upon him and a son of kings. You are soon to be a king yourself. You can and you will. For the sake of your people. For his sake. And for yourself." With that Hejris rises to his feet and leaves the tent. With slightly unsteady hands Feisal lights a cigarette. It's a gift from Lawrence; the Englishman still brings him those from every raid he takes part in.

It's been almost a year since that disastrous reconnaissance mission to Deraa. They've spent the better portion of those months apart, Lawrence on the railways, Feisal traveling, visiting, holding court, establishing himself as a leader of a free Arab state. They rarely speak about anything other than war and politics, they don't even sleep in the same tent anymore. But still, without fail, Lawrence brings gifts from every raid and those gifts give Feisal the faintest glimmer of hope.

Hejris is right. Feisal knows he needs to focus on the Revolt. Slowly but steadily they're approaching Damascus, plans for that have to be made. And for what will come after they take the city. 

 

Usually the return of a raiding group is a very noisy, joyous affair, with plenty of cheering and gunfire. At first this return is no different: it starts with the cries and shots signalling a friendly party, followed by the camp's enthusiastic response. But as the riders approach the noise dies down, turning into shocked, heavy silence. It's that silence that draws Feisal out of his tent.

They're a sorry sight, exhausted riders, perched on equally exhausted camels, filthy, covered in sand, dust, sweat and blood, some nursing wounded limbs. This is the worst return Feisal has ever seen.

Mr Bentley is among the riders. He looks terribly uncomfortable, dressed in a western suit, sitting on his camel like one would sit on horseback. He falls out of the saddle and promptly vomits onto the sand. Feisal's stomach gives a sickening lurch, acid rapidly rising in his throat. He quickly lights a cigarette.

"Your highness." Mr Bentley staggers towards him on unsteady legs. "Jesus wept, your highness, Jesus wept."

"What happened?" Feisal offers him a cigarette. The American accepts and collapses onto his backside, barely holding himself upright.

"It was carnage, sir. Total, bloody carnage. There were women and children and the Turks had absolutely massacred them and just... left them there. And this guy, Talal, it was his village, right? And he wanted to avenge his people, I get that, yeah? And the Turks, the column, they were still in sight. Major Lawrence gave the order. No prisoners, he said, no prisoners. They killed everyone, the entire freaking column, excuse my language. Major Lawrence too, he killed..."

"Where is he?" Feisal interrupts, his mind reeling with horror, rage.

"Who, Major Lawrence? Over there." Bentley points at Lawrence's tent, pitched a few yards away from Feisal's.

 

"What have you done?!" 

"I'm not sure I understand." Lawrence doesn't just sound clueless. He looks clueless as well. Exhausted too, thick dark rings visible just beneath his eyes, highlighted by the layer of dust on his face.

"Please do not toy with me." Feisal hisses. "I heard what happened."

"Justice happened."

"You call that justice?! You and your men slaughtered a column of Turks! With no regard for the Code or international laws!"

"Do you know what those men did?! They tortured, raped and murdered a village full of defenceless women and children. They left nobody, Feisal, nobody. Is that how the Code says to treat civilians in a war zone?"

"No, of course not, it's inexcusable but... But that doesn't mean we can lower ourselves to their level. You said that yourself."

"That was before."

"Before what?!"

"You want to know?" All of a sudden Lawrence is right in front of Feisal, in his personal space, so close he can feel the heat radiating from his body. "Do you want to know what happened to me in Deraa?"

"I don't follow?"

"They violated me!" Lawrence screams, his voice harsh with emotion. "They whipped me and violated me, one by one, more times than I can count! They laughed at me and played with me and... and they, they made me... They were in the column, every single one of them and when I noticed them, after what they'd done to me, what they'd done in the village... There could be no mercy."

"So you killed them." Feisal whispers, his heart aching, pounding against his ribs.

"I settled my account with them."

"I beg your pardon?!"

"As you heard. I settled my account with them."

"No. That's... That's not you. My Lawrence, my sweetheart is not cruel."

"Your sweetheart died in Deraa."

"I do not believe that."

"You are free to believe whatever you want."

There is no reasoning with Lawrence, Feisal realises. He's so trapped in his own pain and the atrocity he'd just committed that he can't see sense.

Feisal leaves without another word. He'd rather retreat, lest his emotions take the better of him.

 

Another raiding party sets out in the evening. Lawrence goes with them. He's bathed and dressed in clean clothes but obviously not rested and the mere sight of him breaks Feisal's heart.

"Do you think he's lost it?" Ali asks as they watch the party leave.

"For his sake I hope he has. An insane man cannot be held responsible for his actions."

"He's not in control of himself, I can tell you that for sure. And he's held on for a _very_ long time. In fact I'm surprised he didn't snap sooner."

In one swift motion Feisal turns and smacks Ali on the back of the head. "Do _not_ talk about him like that."

"What?! I was being honest. You, brother, need to get a grip. Don't let your heart rule over your head."

"I'm not letting..."

"And I was born yesterday." Ali snorts. "Thanks to Lawrence Damascus is within reach. Without him we would still be cowering behind rocks in Wadi Safra. The best you can do is make sure his effort doesn't go to waste. You out of all people should know what his opinion is on waste."

Feisal knows.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A parting of ways...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The fragments in italics are flashbacks. There is also a POV switch at the end of the chapter.

Damascus, 1918

 

"The flag, your highness, must come down."

"That is out of the question, general."

"But, your highness..."

"The flag stays. If your men attempt to remove it my men will retaliate. We wouldn't want that now, would we? Not before the approaching peace talks?"

The British general sighs, frustrated, exhausted and very obviously ill at ease. The man is a soldier through and through, not a politician, which makes him easier to reason with but also insensitive to more... subtle issues. 

"I'm glad we've reached an agreement." Feisal gathers himself and rises to leave. The general rises too and salutes him. So does the small, golden-haired man waiting by the door.

Lawrence looks unwell, his cheeks sunken, sunburned, uniform hanging off his thin frame. He'd been uncharacteristically silent throughout the meeting. Feisal worries about him. Like he has for the past year.

 

_"What are you doing?" Lawrence murmurs, drowsy but amused._

_"Worshipping you." Feisal kisses a trail up Lawrence's thigh, over his hip, his waist, his ribs, finding his elbow, kissing that too, then carrying on up his arm, his shoulder..._

_"There's nothing to worship."_

_"There's everything to worship." Feisal buries his fingers in Lawrence's hair, stroking gently. "Your exquisite skin, your beautiful hands, your lips... The sweetest lips in the world..."_

_Lawrence laughs softly, rolling over to face Feisal..."_

 

Lawrence comes to see Feisal a few hours after his meeting with the general. They walk to Saladin's Mausoleum side by side, in complete silence. Lawrence seems to be bracing himself, preparing to say something, he even opens his mouth once or twice but stops himself before anything can come out. He looks anguished.

"I've been promoted." He says finally, his voice hushed, as if speaking is causing him pain. "Lieutenant colonel."

"Congratulations." Feisal tries to smile. He's happy for Lawrence, he really is.

"I... I wanted to ask your forgiveness. For what happened in there, in General Allenby's office and for what my harsh words earlier, in Guweira."

"I was harsh too and unnecessarily so. I should be the one asking your forgiveness."

"No, you were right about me."

 

_Lawrence is a peculiar creature. He has a hedonistic streak: a love of soft bedding, beautiful objects and a taste for sweets. Yet he rarely indulges himself, so rarely in fact that Feisal finds himself creating opportunities for small pleasures. Like tonight. He's received a gift from an old friend, a gift that can be shared..._

_"What is this?" Lawrence examines the pastry before biting into it._

_"Ma'amoul. We usually eat them at night during Ramadan." Feisal explains. "They can be filled with dates or nuts."_

_"This is delicious..." Lawrence sighs blissfully, mouth still half-full. "Where did you get it from?"_

_"A close friend, one I met in Constantinople. Her husband sympathised with our cause and paid the ultimate price for that. Maybe one day you will meet her."_

_"I hope so. If she's as wonderful as her pastries..."_

_"She is." Feisal smiles._

 

The tiles feel wonderfully cool beneath Feisal's hand as he runs his fingers along the geometrical patterns. They're white and blue, those tiles, white like snow, like the finest Meccan thawbs, blue like the sky, the sea. Like Lawrence's eyes.

Behind Feisal's back metal fits the floor with a soft click. Silence. Then another click. And then the echoing thud of a heavy object hitting the ground.

"Are you sure I can keep this?" Lawrence gestures towards the golden wreath now lying at his feet.

"Yes, of course. You earned it. Garland for the conqueror."

 

_"My friends!" Ali bellows at the top of his lungs. "I give you El Aurens, the conqueror of Akaba, the terror of the Turks!"_

_The men cheer as Lawrence takes his place on the carpet by Feisal's side. He's smiling shyly, embarrassed by the attention and Ali's flamboyant introduction._

_There's food aplenty, meat, rice, cakes and fruit. There's stories and poems and songs. Ali of the Harith slings his servant boy over one shoulder, a giddy, giggling Lawrence over the other and lifts them both in a demonstration of his strength. He then proceeds to march around the castle courtyard until the Englishman begs, breathless with mirth, to be put down._

_Feisal watches their antics attentively. Ali of the Harith is interested in Lawrence, more than Feisal would like. But it's been such a lovely day, it's turning into a splendid night and he has no intention of letting jealousy spoil that._

 

They sit side by side on the ground in the courtyard, too tired to walk back to their quarters. Lawrence stretches his legs, then crosses them again. When Feisal offers him a cigarette he accepts. So they sit side by side in silence, smoking, each lost in his own thoughts. Lawrence coughs a few times, unaccustomed to tobacco.

"I can't stay." He says, voice none too steady.

"Are you returning to Cairo?" Dread settles in Feisal's heart and stomach, heavy, colder than ice.

"I'm returning to England."

"You need to be with your people. I understand." Feisal tries to keep his own voice level, his throat is constricting, eyes filling with tears.

"I... I'm..." Whatever Lawrence had wanted to say is drowned in heart-wrenching sobs. Feisal can't bear it any longer. He puts his arm around the Englishman's trembling shoulders and they both weep, holding one another in the courtyard of Saladin's Mausoleum.

 

_He'd never thought much of himself. Too small, too thin, too sensitive, too smart. Obstinate, stubborn, not obedient enough, not good enough. Sinful. Perverse. Odd._

_Feisal on the other hand is a work of art. He's slender and graceful, statuesque and devilishly handsome. He's well educated and well spoken, a true gentleman. He's everything Lawrence isn't._

_But for some strange, unfathomable reason Feisal loves him. He's not said it yet, he doesn't need to, his actions speak volumes as does the softness in his eyes whenever he looks at Lawrence._  
 

The boat is horrifically, painfully noisy, full of chatter, whispers, the rumbling of engines, the clatter of footsteps and luggage.

Colonels are entitled to private cabins and Lawrence is grateful for that. He doesn't want to be around people. It hurts to talk, to smile, to be polite. There's no respite in sleep. Simple things like eating and breathing are exhausting.

Lawrence lies in bed, staring at the cabin wall, fist clenched around the ring still hanging on that leather cord around his neck.

"No matter what happens we will have all the time in the world." Feisal had promised him once, a lifetime ago. How Lawrence wishes that was true!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feisal's friend is a product of numerous conversations with Christina_Marie. Thank you so much for helping me create her!   
> We will get to meet her later.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Paris Peace Conference.

_1919_

Paris is similar to Constantinople, ancient, large, bubbling with life. But it's also quieter and not half as colourful.  
Feisal feels like a fool. Generally, he doesn't mind European clothes, quite the opposite, he likes a well-tailored, elegant suit. This orientalised abomination however... Ali had laughed upon seeing him in it for the first time and Feisal can hardly blame him for it. It's ridiculous, only slightly better than a fancy dress costume.

Feisal tightens his grip on the dog leashes wrapped around his hand. The new Saluki puppies, gifts from Ali (who seems to believe a dog can cure just about anything, from nerves to a broken heart), are still very excitable and tug a lot. Which is understandable, there's enough new scents and sights in the Jardins des Tuileries to distract a youngster. But there are also passers by and reporters and Feisal would rather not be embarrassed in front of them, not even by a dog. Ali, on the other hand, does not seem concerned by public scrutiny at all. He's let his pack of dogs run wild and is now sitting on the gravelled pathway, chatting in broken French to some local children who have taken interest in the Salukis. Feisal leaves him there, lets the puppies tug him away, deeper into the park, straight into a small side alley and...

"Why hello!" Colonel Lawrence drops to his knees, arms wide open. The dogs run straight into them and start lapping at his face and hands, wagging their tails like mad. 

"How have you been?" Feisal asks. "I haven't seen you since my arrival."

"Forgive me, I've been very busy, preparing for the Commitee. I promised you an independent Arabia and I intend to keep that promise."

"I don't doubt that. I have absolute faith in you."

"That makes one of us then. But let's not talk shop, not now at least. I don't think I've been introduced to these lovely little creatures..."

"Oh, these are Guinevere and Jafar."

"You named your dogs..."

"After Scheherazade's father and the queen from that book you were reading in Wejh."

"You remembered that?" Lawrence smiles shyly.

"Of course." Feisal smiles back.

_Of course I remember, sweetheart. I remember the books you liked to read, the poets you liked to quote. I remember the tunes you used to whistle or sing softly while working. I remember your laughter, the rich, loud public laugh meant for jokes and teasing and the deeper, more throaty one meant just for me. I remember how you used to wrap yourself in blankets and in my arms, as tightly as possible, as close as you could get._

"Well..." Lawrence straightens up and dusts himself off. "Would you like to take a stroll with me before I go back to work on your petitions?"

"Absolutely." Feisal nods quickly. He'd love nothing more than a walk with Lawrence. 

 

It feels strange to be spending so much time with Lawrence again. Not uncomfortable, Feisal could never feel uncomfortable around him, just odd. Not unlike that night in Akaba, after Lawrence's return from Jerusalem, that sleepless night of ceiling-gazing.

Lawrence burns like wildfire, writing, attending meetings, interpreting, watching. He's constantly alert, Feisal thinks, learning, acquiring information, analysing. He's merciless too, taking apart legal documents, pointing out falsehoods and slights. A truly formidable opponent.

Feisal's heart hurts. Seeing Lawrence like that, passionate, powerful, fierce yet perfectly calm and composed ignites all sorts of feelings in Feisal, from admiration and the deepest, softest love to barely manageable desire.

And then, all of a sudden, in the midst of peace talks, despite scheduled hearings and meetings, Lawrence disappears.

 

"You little shit! Why would you do something like that?!" The closed door does little to muffle Ali's irate screams. Feisal feels sorry for whoever is on the receiving end of his brother's wrath. He even considers intervening, decides not to, instead settling for eavesdropping.

"No, no I don't understand!" Ali carries on, evidently on the brink of exploding. "Do you have any idea how we... he... Argh! What could be more important than this?!"

"My father died, Ali!" The subject of Ali's wrath raises his voice and Feisal sits up.

Lawrence is back.

"What?!"

"My father died" Lawrence repeats, a little more calmly now. "I was too late to say goodbye to him and couldn't stay for the funeral..."

"Oh Aurens..." Ali's voice softens instantly. "I'm so sorry."

Feisal heads for the door, Guinevere and Jafar hot on his heels, trying to overtake him, slipping on the cold marble floor.

"Colonel Lawrence."

"Your highness." Lawrence bows. 

"You left without a word of warning. You were needed here..."

"I was also needed in England."

"When you were away things took a turn for the worse. I've been forced to make certain... concessions to the French."

Lawrence's eyes widen in horror. "What do you mean?"

"I've had to allow the French to establish a military presence in Syria."

"On what basis?"

"Monsieur Clemenceau spoke a lot about the Crusades..."

"The Crusades?! Good heavens!" Lawrence snorts. "Let me see if I can clear this mess up. Monsieur Clemenceau desperately needs to be reminded who actually won the Crusades!"

With that he turns on his heel and walks away, briskly, purposefully. Guinevere and Jafar try to chase him but Feisal quickly pulls them back by their collars.

"I almost feel sorry for Monsieur Clemenceau." Ali smiles lightly. "But he deserves to have his arse handed to him..."

" _Ali_!" Feisal hisses. 

"What?! Don't tell me you would not like to witness that. Maybe it will reignite..."

Feisal doesn't say anything to that, instead he sharply smacks Ali across the back of the head.

 

"I tried. I spoke to Clemenceau, I spoke to the Americans, I spoke to my people. I exhausted every option I had. Bloody hell, Feisal, I even played dirty and told the papers about the secret agreement between the French and the British. Not even that worked." Lawrence's voice trembles with frustration and sadness. He looks deathly tired, his hand shaking, nervously tapping the armrest of his chair. Feisal aches to take that hand in his own, stroke it till it relaxes. But such a touch would not be welcomed, not anymore...

"You did everything you could..." Feisal starts in hope that maybe words can provide some sort of comfort.

"Oh please!" Lawrence slashes the air with that shaking hand. "I could have done more, done better. But now... now they think I'm a traitor. I've been ordered to cease all communications with you as a matter of fact."

"What are you going to do?"

"Well, you know how good I am at following orders." Lawrence laughs mirthlessly. "I am going back to England. Hopefully from there I'll be able to right the wrong that had been done to you and your people."

"Sweetheart." Feisal rises from his chair and drops to his knees in front of Lawrence.

"Please..." The Englishman starts, eyes rapidly filling with tears. "Please don't."

"Will I ever see you again?"

"I don't know." A solitary tear escapes, dribbling down Lawrence's cheek. He doesn't even attempt to wipe it away.

"The promise I made to you in Wejh still stands. No matter what we will have all the time in the world. And..." Now Feisal can feel his voice starting to tremble. "And if you ever want to come back home... You will always have a place in my heart, my soul and my bed."

They gaze at each other in silence, drinking in, memorising every single detail. Gently, Feisal takes Lawrence's hands in his and kisses them softly.

"I'm sorry." Lawrence rises to his feet. One step, two, three, four, then the faint creak of door hinges and he's gone.

Guinevere licks the tears off Feisal's cheeks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Forgive me if this is not entirely accurate. I went for a combination of what I read in Jeremy Wilson's biography of Lawrence and what I saw in A Dangerous Man: Lawrence After Arabia.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A few glimpses into the year 1920.   
> A number of POV changes and some major inaccuracy.  
> TW for a nightmare about Deraa at the very beginning of the chapter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for my rusty Italian. If any of it is incorrect please let me know and I'll fix it.

_He can't stand up. Oh no, Oh God, no, he can't control his legs, can't move them, can't stand. He takes a deep breath, inhaling dust and sand, and braces himself on his hands, dragging himself across the stone floor. Get to the doorway, get to the doorway, it's safe there..._

_A hand, large, cold and sweaty, wraps itself around his ankle, pulling him back. More hands grab at him, pushing him face first into the floor, holding him down, forcing his thighs apart and he's fighting, kicking..._

_"No! No, please! FEISAL!"_

 

"Feisal!" Lawrence gasps, trembling from head to foot, panting.

"Signore, tutto va bene, tutto va bene." A man looms into view, intimidatingly tall, dressed in a white coat. 

"Where am I?" Lawrence asks. The last thing he remembers is getting on a plane in Rome. A journey that should not end... here, in a whitewashed little room with a single chair, a small metal-framed bed and a tiny bedside table.

"Scusi ma non capisco." The man, probably a doctor, smiles apologetically. 

"Parlez-vous Francais?"

"Francese? No."

Lovely.

"Roma?" Lawrence tries. He'd always been good with languages and Italian is close enough to Latin... A bit of improvisation might be in order.

"Si, Roma." The doctor nods, then starts talking, long and animated. Lawrence catches the word "incidente" and then "fratture". Similar enough to their English counterparts. So, an accident and broken bones. Ribs and a collarbone, the man clarifies, using Latin terms. Not that Lawrence needs the clarification, he aches from neck to waistline.

With a heavy (and painful) sigh Lawrence lets his hand explore the sling holding his injured shoulder in place, careful not to irritate it any further, assessing, double-checking...

"My ring!" Panic seizes him, crushing his lungs, constricting his throat.

"Che?" The doctor looks at him inquisitively.

"Anulus meus?" Latin had worked once so Lawrence resorts to it again, running his left index finger along his right ring finger.

"Ah! Il vostro anello?" The doctor reaches for the bedside table, opens the drawer and produces that familiar leather cord with the gold and sapphire ring hanging from it. Carefully, he helps Lawrence pull the cord over his head and tuck it under his sling. The touch is brief but still he has to hold his breath to stop himself from shuddering.

The leather is worn, fragile beneath Lawrence's fingers. A replacement might be in order, something more secure maybe... But he doesn't want to replace it, it feels so comforting, it feels like a heavy coat on a cold day, a hot bath... It feels like Feisal's arms...

 

"UNCROWNED KING OF ARABIA RELEASED FROM HOSPITAL" the headline proclaims in bold black letters. Feisal scans the article, skipping sentences, then entire paragraphs until he finds what he's been looking for. 

"Colonel Lawrence escaped with minor injuries: a fractured collarbone and strained muscles."

"Alhamdulillah." Feisal whispers. He returns to the beginning of the article, re-reads it, this time properly. Despite the headline most of the feature focuses on Lawrence's exploits in Arabia, there's even a picture of the man himself in the desert, dressed in a thawb. In all honesty, Feisal would have preferred a recent photograph, to see for himself how Lawrence is keeping. But that's not what the public want. The public want flowing robes and sweeping desert landscapes, not an exhausted shell of a man in a uniform.

Feisal folds the newspaper and tosses it aside. It's been months, years now, of separation yet he still yearns, his soul still aches. 

"He hasn't stopped loving you." Hejris says from his post by the door.

"What was that?" Feisal looks up, a little startled.

"Aurens. He hasn't stopped loving you. He doesn't love himself right now but..."

"And what makes you say that?"

"He still has your ring."

 

Lawrence is such a peculiar little beast, Siegfried muses. In public he's the perfect gentleman, with his upper class accent, manners and education. He's quick-witted, funny, evidently well read, an absolute joy to talk to. Yet he is so heart-breakingly sad even when he smiles, even as he jokes.

The sadness fills Lawrence's eyes as he gazes at the fireplace. His hand slips under the open collar of his shirt, stays there, motionless, for a long while. When it reemerges there's a mark on the index finger, a deep, red imprint left by what appears to be a string or a fine chain.

Lawrence smiles wistfully, eyes still fixed on the fire and suddenly it dawns on Siegfried: this man is in love! And not just that, he's pining! But if he's in love and pining then he must have left the object of his affection behind in Arabia...

Siegfried's mind wanders to the fragments of prose Lawrence had asked him to read. The only women mentioned in those scraps are married or make a living selling their bodies. And Siegfried simply can't imagine Lawrence with a prostitute. Of course it is entirely possible that he'd decided to omit the very existence of that one special lady unless...

Unless it's not a lady.

Another thought hits Siegfried: the descriptions of women are general, the descriptions of men on the other hand are wonderfully detailed. Some men are even called attractive.

Well, would you look at that, Siegfried smiles to himself.

 

"You need an heir." Ali says, helping himself to one of Feisal's cigarettes.

"What?" Feisal looks up at him from the military report he's been trying to read for the past half-hour. 

"You're in trouble, brother. The French are literally on your doorstep, you have little support. And no heir."

"And what do you in your infinite wisdom suggest that I do about it?" Feisal sighs. 

"Well, there's two ways of going about this. The traditional way..." Ali winks "...meaning you need to marry, you don't want bastards after all. Or you could name an heir. Appoint one or adopt. There's an orphan in Father's court in Mecca, a little boy. Think about it."

Feisal sighs again. He's already got so much to think about: the French at his borders, the gaping void in his heart...

"I will take the child in." The words come out before he can stop them, it's as though he's got no control over his tongue.

"Wise decision." Ali nods approvingly. "Children are precious. You will love being a father."

 

"DAMASCUS FALLS TO FRENCH ARMY" screams the headline. Massive, sharp-edged letters, each cutting into Lawrence's soul like a dagger.

He'd failed. He'd failed Feisal, Ali, Auda, all the men who'd fought and died in his name. He'd promised Feisal Damascus, the crown of Syria, he'd promised that over his own dead body would they lose it and he'd failed at that.

_I shouldn't have made that secret agreement public... No, not true. That was the right thing, the honourable thing to do. I should have fought harder, more aggressively. And I should have investigated that agreement the moment I became suspicious about it. Damascus has fallen, Feisal has been deposed and all this mess is my fault._

_My fault._

_My fault._


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The lovers meet again in Cairo. Just a short chapter this time.

_1921, Cairo_

Twelve strides.

Twelve strides to get from the table to the window.

Twelve strides to return.

Feisal pauses, half-leaning, half-sitting on the table, all ten fingers drumming a rapid staccato rhythm on the wood.

Twelve strides to the window.

He lights a cigarette, focuses on the inhale, the smoke filling his lungs, the tension in his shoulders and stomach slowly relaxing.

There's a crowd outside, lining the street, courtyard and rooftops, some brave souls have even climbed the trees. Feisal's not surprised, the legend still lives in the minds and hearts of that endless sea of men. Such a reception is nothing but fitting.

Six strides.

Feisal stops halfway between the window and the table, listening intently. The air is buzzing with noise, the chatter of the crowd and the usual sounds of the street. Just as he's about to resume his pacing the chatter gives way to a chant, a steady, rhythmic "Aurens, Aurens".

He's here.

_Of course he's here. Why are you so surprised?! It's not like him to make arrangements and then not keep them._   
_Yes but he only agreed to a meeting because he has a plan, official business. This is nothing to do with anything..._

 

"My lord." Lawrence bows and the formality of that greeting astonishes Feisal. There hadn't been need for titles between them in the desert, now it feels almost unnatural.

"You know you don't have to call me that." Feisal reproaches him gently, smiling.

"I know." Lawrence smiles too but it's not his usual smile, it's polite and doesn't quite reach his eyes. They look huge, those eyes, framed by black shadows and sunken cheekbones.

"Are you unwell?" Feisal asks, still gently, dreading the answer.

"Unwell? No, no, of course not. I'm... I'm very busy nowadays. Eating isn't always a priority."

"What could possibly be more important than taking care of your needs?"

"You." Lawrence says bluntly. "I did once say..."

"That you would gladly jeopardise your health and life for me. Come now, let us talk." Feisal gestures towards the table. Lawrence goes without objection, perching on the edge of one of the large, handsomely carved chairs as though he's trying to take up as little space as possible.

"So." He clasps his hands on the table. "Iraq."

 

 _"Aren't you a gorgeous little thing?" The hand, cold, wet and foreign, creeps down his neck and onto his chest, underneath his thawb. He tries to squirm away but he can't move, he can't move a muscle, oh no no no... That cold hand closes itself on the back of his neck, gripping painfully, pushing him face first onto the stone floor_...

Lawrence sits up, panting, legs tangled in the bedsheets. I'm not in Syria, he tells himself, I'm in Cairo. Safe.

There will be no more sleep tonight, he knows that all too well. He hasn't slept a full night in years, not since...

His skin is crawling, itching, unclean, unclean, unclean.

No wonder he doesn't want to touch you, a tiny, serpent-like voice hisses in the back of his mind. 

_He's a nobleman, a descendant of the Prophet, if he knew what the Turks did, what they made you do... He wouldn't want such a foul creature like you to sully his bed..._

Biting back tears Lawrence gathers himself and heads to the bathroom.

 

"All we've talked about since you arrived is politics." Feisal leans back in his chair and lights a cigarette. "How have you been?"

"Busy." Lawrence replies curtly. "Between the Foreign Office and other... projects I've been working on I've been very busy."

"I can imagine. You were never one to sit idly."

"Idleness leads to sin, as my mother likes to say. The phrase was quite literally beaten into me. But that doesn't matter. How have you been?"

"I've been well, thank you." Feisal decides to ignore that odd remark, now is neither the time nor the place. "God has blessed me with good health. And a son."

"A son? I didn't know you had married. Congratulations." Lawrence smiles but his eyes... Those are the eyes of a man whose will to live has been crushed, Feisal realises.

"Oh no, I'm still unmarried. I took in an orphan, a distant relative of mine." He explains quickly.

"Oh... I understand." Lawrence sighs, a hint of relief in his voice.

"I told you once that I had no desire to marry. That has not changed."

"As a king, don't you have obligations? Towards your family and your people?"

"Yes, which is why I chose to adopt an heir. I cannot go against my heart." Feisal adjusts himself in the hard wooden chair. Now or never. "Stay with me."

"Excuse me?" 

"Stay with me." Feisal repeats. "Here, in Cairo. In Iraq, England, France, Italy, wherever you wish. As long as you're with me. Please."

The silence is unbearably heavy.

"No." Lawrence says after what feels like eternity. "I'm... Forgive me. No. You come from the most noble family in Arabia and I... I'm the lowest, filthiest scum..."

"No, you're not!"

"I'm sorry, Feisal. I can't." Lawrence rises to his feet and heads for the door. Powerless, Feisal watches him leave, memorising every detail he can, until the door clicks shut.


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A look at the years after Feisal and Lawrence's last conversation in Cairo. POV changes and a not exactly linear timeline. Also, some historical inaccuracy.

How do you live with a broken heart? 

You get up in the morning, you bathe, you pray. You have breakfast, you work. You go for a walk, you play with your dogs. If it's not a school day you take your son with you, he's a timid, withdrawn little boy, he needs plenty of loving attention.

In the afternoon you hold meetings, you write letters, you read. You think about Abdullah in Transjordan, Ali in Mecca. You worry about him, Ibn Saud and his men have been venturing into the Hejaz and with every such invasion they become bolder. It's plain to see that they want to take Mecca for themselves. You would hate for your family to lose Mecca and you would hate for Ali to perish.

You eat, you bathe, you pray. You go to bed. Then dawn comes, you get up, you bathe, you pray and you carry on, despite the gaping wound in your heart, the emptiness in your soul, day by day. Soon the days become weeks, the weeks become months and before you know it it's been a year, two years, three. You still have dreams about golden hair and eyes as blue as the tiles in the Sultan Ahmet Mosque in Constantinople. You still hold on to every bit of information you can find, every newspaper article, every rumour, even the most ridiculous ones. It doesn't soothe your pain but it makes it a bit more bearable.

And so you carry on with your broken heart and aching soul.

 

_London 1922_

"What the hell are those?!" 

"Excuse me?" Lawrence jumps, startled out of his stupor. He feels horribly exposed, naked, in the middle of a freezing little room, being prodded, poked and interrogated by complete strangers.

"I said..." The doctor repeats slowly. "What. Are. Those? Punishment?"

"No sir. More like persuasion, sir." Lawrence answers, trying his best not to tremble. It's only a formality, he tells himself as the doctor carries on examining his back. 

_Nothing but a simple formality before you can shed the mask of Lawrence of Arabia and disappear, become... nobody._

"Mr Ross, isn't it?" The doctor asks, using the fake name Lawrence had given in his application.

"Yes, sir."

"You're not exactly what we're looking for but you'll do. Now get your clothes back on and off you go."

That's it. It's done. Sealed. Set in stone. He's just joined the Royal Air Force.

 

_Baghdad 1925_

Ali looks like a shadow of himself, bruised, exhausted and uncharacteristically silent. His wife Nafissa, on the other hand, has not stopped talking since their arrival.

"He had one simple task." She gestures furiously, bracelets jingling with every wave of her hands. "One simple task. Protect our children's futures. And what did he do?!"

"I was out there, leading the defence." Ali sighs, crushed. "What more could I possibly do?!"

"How am I supposed to know?! You're the great warrior." Nafissa snorts, turning to Feisal. "He lost Mecca. Would you believe that? He lost Mecca."

"I should have left you behind." Ali mutters before Feisal can even think of anything to say.

"I swear, one day someone is going to poison your morning coffee."

"Let them. They'll just put me out of my misery."

"Your misery?! I turn a blind eye to your... your affairs! I let you do whatever you want! If anyone here is miserable it's me!"

"Well then why didn't you marry Feisal instead of me?!" 

"I am not a party in your marital disputes!" Feisal interjects. "You and your children are welcome to stay in Baghdad for as long as you wish. But please, please, please do not drag me into your disagreements."

"That is very kind of you." Nafissa smiles. "I think I would like to be shown my quarters now. The children are exhausted and if I stay in _his_ presence for a minute longer I will strangle him and you will have to put me to death."

"Don't break your neck on your way up the stairs." Ali hisses as Nafissa leaves, followed by their five children. The youngest, a little girl, pauses to show him her tongue and quickly runs off. Feisal bites the inside of his cheek to stifle a laugh.

"They hate me." Ali rubs his tired eyes. "That scorpion made sure of it. She's been poisoning them against me from the day they were born. I really don't know why she's so angry with me. I didn't choose to marry her after all. The decision was made for us."

"Have you thought how your affairs affect her?"

"We have an agreement. I can do what I want as long as there are no bastards, our children's futures are secure and I fulfil my marital obligations."

"Splendid. I did not need to know those details, thank you very much."

"Well, now you do and you will have to learn to live with that knowledge." Ali grins weakly. "Anyway, enough of my troubles. How is our dear Colonel?"

"I haven't spoken to him since we met in Cairo."

"That's a pity. He's blinded by his pain and guilt but I don't doubt that he still loves you. Only he might need to be reminded that he does. Go to England. Talk to him. Behind closed doors preferably..."

Feisal opens his mouth to retort, freezes instead. Ali has a point, he realises. 

"I will consider it." Feisal says finally. "Now go. Get some rest. You look like you need it."

Ali playfully smacks him on the back of the head before leaving.

 

_Uxbridge 1922_

The Royal Air Force is like the Royal Mint. It takes raw, ugly material and turns it into shiny, clean and perfectly identical coins. Tiny pieces of a much bigger construction.

There is order in the Air Force. You get up, eat, work, sleep on command, no need to think, no need to make any decisions. The order, the near lack of responsibility is liberating in a way. Nothing can go wrong. The worst that can happen is a week of shit-cart duty, a week of collecting rubbish and cleaning out toilets. Hardly torture.

It's PT that's the real torture. 

Some of the officers see PT as the perfect time to vent their frustrations, to show the new recruits who's boss in the pettiest, most ridiculous and pointless ways. They're like wild beasts, those officers, selecting the weakest and tormenting them relentlessly. 

Lawrence isn't surprised to find himself among those regularly bullied. He's older, his ribs, broken in that plane crash in Rome, still haven't healed and it's harder for him to keep up with the others. He's what some people would call posh. He's highly educated, well spoken, well-mannered. He stands out.

Oddly enough the other recruits don't seem to mind. They even respect him a little bit, although Lawrence thinks that has more to do with the fact that he owns a working watch than with anything else. 

Sometimes Lawrence wonders if any of the recruits have recognised him. It doesn't seem like it and thank God for that. They wouldn't understand.

 

_Baghdad 1925_

"So here we have the property, these are the floor plans..." Lady Bell spreads out papers and photographs, covering the entire table. She's a formidable woman, talented, outspoken, unconventional. She reminds Feisal of Lawrence in many ways.

Lady Bell is working on opening a museum in Baghdad, a place of beauty and learning. Feisal supports her wholeheartedly in that. He'd always wanted to open a museum...

"Your Majesty?" Lady Bell leans forward, trying to catch Feisal's attention. "Forgive me but you seem distracted."

"It's nothing." He shakes his head. "I like these plans very much. They fit well with the local architecture."

"That's the effect I was hoping to achieve. There remains the question of... directorship."

"Do you have a candidate?"

"Apart from myself?" Lady Bell quirks an eyebrow. "Your Majesty, this museum is to me what a child is to her mother. The only other person I could trust to run it is Mr Lawrence. He's an archaeologist by trade, he has great respect for the artefacts, the culture and the people."

"Have you heard from him?" Feisal asks, praying that he doesn't sound desperate or nosy.

"Not directly, no. But I understand that he's had a difficult couple of years. He joined the Air Force under a false name but was discovered and discharged. Apparently he is now serving in the Royal Tank Corps."

"Oh? What on earth is he doing in the Tank Corps?"

"I don't know. What I do know however is that he's deeply unhappy. The High Commissioner said he's been making certain... allusions."

"Allusions?" Feisal sits up, his insides turning to ice, already he doesn't like the sound of this.

"The High Commissioner says he spoke to a friend of Mr Lawrence's, a Mr Forster, who is a writer. According to Mr Forster in his letters Mr Lawrence has been suggesting that he is so unhappy he's contemplating suicide."

Oh good God! 

Feisal's broken heart falls into pieces once again. Lawrence, the strongest, bravest, most stubborn man in the world, contemplating taking his own life?! That can't be!

Feisal's due to go to England soon. A visit to Mr Lawrence might be in order.

 

_Cranwell 1925_

It's good to be back in the Air Force, away from the brutishness of the tanks. It's taken a lot of begging both from Lawrence himself and from his friends. He dreads to think of all the favours they must have called in but nonetheless he is grateful. 

He goes by Shaw now, a name he'd picked out of the telephone book, but if someone recognises him as Lawrence he doesn't deny it. There's no point, one way or another it will come to light.

He repairs planes, it's good work, hard but satisfying, and it doesn't allow his mind to wander into areas best left undisturbed. He is... no, not happy. He's simply not miserable.

 

When the CO's batman comes looking for him Lawrence's blood goes cold with fear. Last time something like this had happened he'd been told in no uncertain terms that Aircraftman Ross had become a liability and could no longer remain in the Air Force.

If this is a repeat of that there will be no point in carrying on.

 

"You're going to London." The CO places a letter and a train ticket on the desk in front of Lawrence.

"May I ask why?"

"The King of Iraq requested a meeting with you. God knows why." The CO winks.

"I'm terribly sorry but I must decline." With a fingertip Lawrence pushes the train ticket away. Some things are best left undisturbed...

"Nonsense. It's non-negotiable, Lord Trenchard's orders. I was instructed to personally put you on that train if need be. You know I will do it."

Lawrence sighs, defeated. He's indebted to Trenchard for allowing him to return to the Air Force, he doesn't really have the option to say no. And his last meeting with Feisal hadn't ended particularly well, this could be his only chance for an apology and a proper goodbye.

"Alright." He says. "If it's non-negotiable."


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And finally we're on our way to Lord Winterton's!

_September 1925, London_   
_Friday_

Everything feels uncomfortable: the sofa, the armchair, the carpet, even his clothes. Feisal sheds his jacket, rolls up his sleeves, lights a cigarette and starts pacing. Guinevere, surrounded by puppies, looks up at him, mildly interested but doesn't move. Jafar on the other hand, seems determined to make him lose his balance.

"It's alright. Everything's fine." Feisal tells the dog, gently scratching behind its ears, trying to convince both of them that everything really is alright.

Lawrence should be here any minute now. They're going to talk, then they're going to visit Lord Winterton, one of the British officers involved in the Revolt, in his country house in Surrey. And then... God only knows what will happen then.

Feisal has high hopes for that visit to Surrey. It's neutral ground, Lawrence might be comfortable enough, willing enough to open up to him, to talk about what's troubling him. Maybe even... No, let's not get too hopeful. This will probably be their last meeting, it's been years after all. They're different men now.

_"He hasn't stopped loving you. He doesn't love himself right now..."_

"Your Majesty?" The head butler slips into the room, his movements quiet and smooth like a well oiled machine. "The car will be ready in five minutes. Also, Mr Lawrence has arrived and is waiting in the parlour."

He's here. One flight of stairs and two doors away. He's really here. He came.

 

It's only one flight of stairs and a few feet of hallways but it feels like miles. Feisal's mind is racing: what if he's a completely different person now? What if they have nothing more in common? What if he's already set on ending his own life and this is the one last look, the final goodbye? 

Feisal shakes his head, banishing that thought and pushes the parlour door open.

The parlour is as British as they come: carpets, heavy curtains, soft armchairs, a fireplace, even a piano. There's a man standing in front of that piano, fingers wandering over the keys. He's small, like Feisal's brother Abdullah, but not fat like Abdullah, far from that. If anything he's too thin, the greyish blue uniform he's wearing looks like it was cut for a larger, broader man.

Lawrence looks up from the piano and smiles. He's hardly changed, still as breathtakingly beautiful as when they'd first met in Wadi Safra. He's got a new haircut though, a more... masculine cut, with shaved sides that emphasise the long line of his neck very nicely indeed. Feisal finds himself tempted to run a hand through that lovely golden hair, down that slender neck...  

And the uniform, the colour of it becomes him, highlighting his eyes, the fairness of his skin...

"You look wonderful in blue." Feisal blurts out, forgetting decorum, propriety, his station, forgetting all the pain, all the years that had passed.

"Oh!" Lawrence drops his gaze, cheeks stained bright pink. "Thank you, that... that's... I'm glad you think so. Do forgive me, I'm a few minutes late. Your maid didn't recognise me and refused to let me in at first."

"Don't worry about..." Feisal starts but is abruptly interrupted by the sound of paws and the rush of dogs darting into the room, demanding the newcomer's attention.

"Guinevere, Jafar!" Lawrence beams, dropping to his knees. "You've grown, you two. Are these all your babies? Good dogs, good boys and girls."

Feisal smiles to himself, instantly reminded of one morning in Wejh, when he'd watched Lawrence playing with Ali's dogs, carefree and completely uninhibited. A moment of sweet innocence in the midst of war.

Laughing softly, Lawrence stretches out on the carpet, letting the puppies climb all over him, putting his left arm over them, trying to stroke as many as possible at the same time, his right hand lying motionless on the floor. That hand doesn't look quite right, it's bruised and somewhat unnaturally bent. The mere sight of it fills Feisal's mind with the worst images. Images he doesn't want to be thinking of right now.

There will be time for that later. All he wants is to enjoy Lawrence's company.

 

The atmosphere in the car is so heavy you could cut it with a knife. They're sitting on opposite ends of the backseat, each looking out of his own window, Lawrence's kitbag between them like an inanimate canvas chaperone. They'd shared silences in Arabia many times before, peaceful moments of just being together. This is nothing like those silences, this is awkward and tense.

The car jolts suddenly, probably on an uneven piece of road. Lawrence gasps, bringing his right arm to his chest, cradling it there, rubbing the wrist very slowly and carefully.

"Are you in pain?" Feisal asks, concerned. Lawrence just shakes his head, still holding onto his wrist.

"It's nothing." He manages, his voice hushed, strained.

"Are you sure?" 

"It's minor, it doesn't matter."

"It seems painful." Feisal pushes gently. "Will you let me have a look?"

With a defeated sigh Lawrence shifts in his seat and rests his hand on the kitbag, rolling the sleeve of his coat up. The wrist is bruised and slightly swollen but much to Feisal's relief there are no scars, no signs of self-harm. Hopefully that means that he hasn't attempted to act upon the threats Lady Bell said he'd made. Although...

"I'm no doctor..." Feisal says slowly, testing the waters. "...but I can recognise a broken limb when I see one. How did this happen? And why did you not have it set?"  

"It's nothing, really." Lawrence rolls his sleeve back down, wincing in the process. "I was helping a gentleman restart his car. Unfortunately he neglected to release the clutch, the crank backfired and hit me in the wrist at great speed. It's not bad, it hardly bothers me."

"Hardly bothers you?! You are unbelievable."

"So I am told." Lawrence retreats to his end of the backseat and turns towards the window. Slightly disheartened, Feisal sits back and closes his eyes.

"Will you be staying the night?" He asks, his tone conversational, his heart pounding in his chest.

"No, not to my knowledge. I'm on leave till this evening but I was instructed to pack in case I get stranded in the countryside, as my superior put it. Which is highly unlikely anyway so no, I will not be staying the night."

Feisal's heart sinks. It will probably take a small miracle to buy him the time he needs.

 

_Evening_

The miracle comes at dinnertime, in the form of Lord Winterton's butler. The man enters, silent as a ghost (this must be a common trait among English domestic staff, Feisal thinks, they're all _very_ quiet), whispers something in his master's ear, then leaves without a sound.

"Well, Lawrence, it seems that you're stranded." Winterton says, grinning broadly. "The car broke down and apparently the chauffeur needs two days to repair it."

"Two days?! I can't stay that long." Lawrence shakes his head. "My commanding officer will have my guts for garters."

"Don't you worry. I have a telephone, I'll clear this with the Lord Marshal."

"No, there's no need for that. I'll walk to the train station."

"There's a guest room waiting for you." Winterton's wife, a woman so petite she looks comical next to her husband, interjects. "The one in the East wing, nice and warm. Right beside His Majesty's room."

"I would hate to impose."

"Nonsense, the more the merrier. Bertie will be thrilled, he loves you." Lady Winterton gestures to her dog, an ugly little thing with bulging eyes, sprawled in a basket in front of the fireplace, snoring loudly. 

Feisal doesn't care much for Bertie and not just because he looks like a poorly crafted toy. That dog is spoiled, cowardly and terribly jealous of other dogs, meaning that Feisal's Salukis are for the time being confined to his room.

"Bertie doesn't love me." Lawrence scoffs, his face straight but eyes sparkling with mirth. "He loves the treats I carry in my pockets."

"Come now, Lawrence." Feisal says. "Don't make our hosts beg."

"Fine, I'll stay. But only until the car is repaired and only if his lordship vouches for me to my superiors."

"Consider it done." Winterton beams. Feisal too smiles. Now that he knows he has time he can concentrate on that conversation he so desperately needs to have with Lawrence. 

Thank God for malfunctioning machines!

 

_Saturday morning_

After their long confinement the dogs are bored and excitable. So much that the minute Feisal opens his door they dash out and down the corridor towards the stairs, all except for the smallest puppy. He's a sweet little creature, calmer, more obedient than the rest of the litter, equally eager to be trained as he is to be cuddled.

The puppy trots happily beside Feisal until they reach the next door down. The dog pauses, sniffing the air, then darts towards the door and begins scraping at it, whining loudly.

"Stop that. Heel." Feisal orders firmly. The puppy just looks up at him, then returns to frantically scraping the door. Which opens, revealing Lawrence, dressed in a richly embroidered robe, one Feisal had given him as a gift many years ago. The puppy immediately started tugging at the hem of that robe, demanding attention.

"What have we here?" Lawrence picks the puppy up carefully, left-handed, and hugs him to his chest. "You've got such expressive eyes, little one. Just like your master, to whom I mean no offence."

"None taken." Feisal smiles, although he finds the comparison odd and would take offence if someone else were to make it. "Did you sleep well?"

"I haven't slept for eight years now." Lawrence says matter-of-factly. "Would you like to come in? I just need to finish getting dressed, then we can go downstairs together. If you wish."

"Yes, of course." Feisal follows him into the room, unable to take his eyes off the other man, his slight form, golden hair, the silent gracefulness of his movements, the tenderness with which he sets the puppy down on the floor.

Then Lawrence starts undoing his dressing gown and Feisal does look away, focusing his gaze on the window, the trees outside, the birds circling above them. Anything not to think about all that beautiful pale skin baring itself a mere few feet away from him, skin he'd so loved to kiss and caress.

"You don't have to look away." Lawrence says softly. "You know me... knew me. Biblically, that is."

"Biblically?" Feisal turns around rapidly, a little too rapidly for his liking.

"Carnally, if you will." Lawrence explains, at the same time trying to do up the buttons of his uniform one-handed. And failing miserably.

"Alright, I won't look away. Do you need some help?" Feisal offers gently, bracing himself for rejection. But there is none. Lawrence just sighs deeply and nods.

So Feisal takes the folds of the uniform in his hands, draws them together and starts popping buttons into holes, one by one, concentrating with all his might on those little pieces of brass, trying not to look at the thin scar peeking out from under the top of Lawrence's undershirt, the crooked line of his collarbone, evidence of at least one fracture, the fine golden chain around his neck...

"What's this?" Against his better judgement Feisal reaches out and touches the chain with his fingertips. Lawrence just blushes a particularly deep shade of pink and pulls the rest of the chain from under his shirt. Dangling on the end of that chain is the gold and pale sapphire ring Feisal had given him in Wejh.

"It's always with me." Lawrence spins the ring between his fingers nervously, then hides it back beneath his undershirt. "Not in basic training though, it's against regulation. But now... It never leaves my person."

Hejris was right, Feisal realises. He kept the ring, he's worn it almost constantly since they parted ways and maybe, just _maybe_ that means there is hope.

"I think I can handle the rest of the buttons." Lawrence smiles, not quite looking Feisal in the eye. "Thank you for your help. I will see you downstairs."

 

Lawrence comes downstairs only a few minutes after Feisal, still slightly flushed but not distressed, with two books tucked under his arm. He looks dashing, the uniform he's wearing today fits him much better than the one he'd worn the day before.

"I'm going to see if I can scrounge up some tea." He says as he sets his books down on the parlour table. "Would you care for some?"

"Please." Feisal nods. "May I take a look at those books? I've always been fascinated by the things you read."

"Of course. Feel free." Lawrence replies, his voice slightly absent, and disappears behind the door.

The books are vastly different: one a treatise by a Danish philosopher whose name Feisal can't pronounce, the other a collection of poetry. The second one is in French and that's the one he selects. Poetry is light, definitely lighter than philosophy. Light is what he needs.

He flips idly through the pages, looking for pencilled notes or bent corners, anything that might indicate a particular interest in one work or another. Unsurprisingly some of the medieval works are underlined, along with a few later ones, all incredibly melancholic in mood. There's also a few loose slips of paper stuck between the pages: a cancelled cheque in the name Ross, a newspaper clipping about the fall of Damascus, a neatly folded sheet of letter paper with the words "Savoy Hotel Cairo" emblazoned at the top.  
He knows he shouldn't, it's none of his business but Feisal unfolds the paper and starts reading:

_My Dearest,_

_This is an idiot letter and I am an idiot. You asked me to stay with you and although every fibre of my being was screaming "yes" I said "no". I regretted that one word the very second it was uttered and still regret it now._   
_I want to find you, run to you, give myself, mind, body and soul to you, and beg for your forgiveness, yet I fear that you will not have me, I rejected you thrice already: upon my return from Deraa, in Paris and now here, in Cairo. I would not be surprised if you were to reject me this time..._

The sound of china shattering against the floor startles Feisal, making him drop the letter onto his lap.

"Oh no!" Lawrence gasps, white as a sheet, two shattered teacups lying at his feet. "You were not supposed to read that."

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, the journalist's first line is a quote from Robert Bolt's script for Lawrence of Arabia and the journalist is Jackson Bentley. Expect some rivalry between him and the other journalist ;)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [The Hanger](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21911218) by [Christina_Marie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Christina_Marie/pseuds/Christina_Marie)




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